194P 


KATH  etiNt.  0  L 


et.  KJ 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

1 1 
HIS  OWN  LIFE  STORY 


TRANSCRIBED  BY 
PIERRE  V.  R.  KEY 


ILLUSTRATED 
FROM  PHOTOGRAPHS 


BOSTON 

SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


' 


1 


Copyright,  1918 

By  SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 
(INCORPORATED) 


* 

* 


X      ' 


t  j '  &.*^r 


JOHN    McCORMACK   TO   HIS    PUBLISHERS 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    THE  BEGINNING  YEARS 1 

II  EARLY  SCHOOL  DAYS  .......     15 

III  COLLEGE  DAYS 28 

IV  EARLY  DUBLIN  DAYS 45 

V    FIRST  Music  STUDIES 59 

VI    EARLY  AMERICAN  DAYS 77 

VII    STUDIES  IN  ITALY 97 

VIII    THE  RETURN  TO  ITALY 113 

IX  CONCLUDING  STUDIES  IN  ITALY     ....  127 

X    FIGHTING  FOR  A  START 139 

XI    LONDON'S  EARLY  REWARDS 152 

XII  LONDON  RECOGNIZES  MCCORMACK     .     .     .  166 

XIII  LONDON  OPENS  ITS  ARMS  .     .  ...  183 

XIV  THE  ARTIST  DEVELOPS 197 

XV  LONDON  AND  THE  SAN  CARLO,  IN  NAPLES     .  208 

XVI  POPE  Pius  X  CONFERS  A  BLESSING     .     .     .  224 

XVII  LONDON'S  RECOGNITION  BROADENS      .     .     .  235 

XVIII  HAMMERSTEIN,  CAMPANINI  AND  AMERICA  .     .  245 

XIX  MANHATTAN  OPERA  HOUSE  DEBUT    .     .     .  255 

XX  GETTING  STARTED  IN  AMERICA    ....  265 

XXI  A  CHANGE  OF  AMERICAN  BASE     ....  280 

XXII  AUSTRALIAN  SEASON  WITH  MELBA     .     .     .  293 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXIII  AMERICAN  AND  AUSTRALASIAN  CONCERTS      .  307 

XXIV  THE  AMERICAN  CONQUEST 327 

XXV  McCoRMACK  FOR  AMERICAN  CITIZENSHIP       .    339 

XXVI  MCCORMACK  AND  AMERICAN  WAR  FUNDS   .        .    353 

XXVII    SELLING  LIBERTY  BONDS 362 

XXVIII    THE  AMERICAN  SINGER 371 

XXIX  SONGS  FOR  THE  CONCERT  PROGRAMME    .     .  380 

XXX    MCCORMACK  ON  CRITICS 393 

XXXI    EDWIN  SCHNEIDER 401 

XXXII    REFLECTIONS 412 

XXXIII  CONCLUSION      .                                          .  425 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

HIS  OWN  LIFE  STORY 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

His  Own  Life  Story 
CHAPTER  I 

THE    BEGINNING    YEARS 

Faith,  which  burned  in  the  heart  of  him,  was 
the  force  that  guided  him  on.  It  is  unlikely, 
during  those  early  Athlone  days,  that  he  was 
aware  of  his  ultimate  destiny  or  suspected  how 
necessary  he  should  one  time  become  to  the  peo- 
ple of  many  lands.  If  he  had  known  I  doubt  if 
he  would  have  swerved  from  his  course  or  exulted 
in  what  lay  before. 

It  wouldn't  have  been  his  way — the  way  of 
John  McCormack,  who  is  what  he  is  because  of 
that  quality  which  sets  one  man  apart  from  oth- 
ers and  makes  him  the  exception. 

His  intimates  understand  this.  When  his 
audiences  have  pondered  they,  too,  will  under- 
stand. For  the  very  quality  I  mention  is  what 

1 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

they  get  when  he  sings  to  them — and  creates  that 
bond  between. 

Achievement  seems  to  have  been  the  actuat- 
ing impulse  behind  the  endeavors  of  the  man. 
To  do  well  a  task  to  which  he  set  himself  appears 
to  have  been  the  thing  he  cared  for  most.  What- 
ever accompanying  rewards  there  were  never  con- 
cerned him  at  all — until  at  length  he  stepped 
back  from  the  task  to  say  mentally  to  himself: 
"It's  the  best  I  could  honestly  do." 

McCormack  does  not  sing,  merely,  because  it 
is  his  profession  to  do  so.  Medicine,  the  law  or 
any  of  the  other  learned  professions  might  easily 
have  been  made  his  calling.  His  was  the  mind 
for  any  of  these,  and  his  education  led  straight 
to  where  he  could  have  proceeded  into  which- 
ever one  his  inclinations  chose. 

But  when  his  college  career  closed  it  was 
the  interpretative  soul  of  the  man  that  whispered 
a  gentle  wish  to  be  tended.  And  because  he 
had  in  him  the  breadth  of  simplicity  John  Mc- 
Cormack listened. 

He  began  to  sing,  he  sings  to-day — and  will 
go  on  singing  until  he  dies — for  just  one  reason 
alone:  God  meant  that  he  should  sing!  He 
was  born  with  the  voice,  with  talent  supreme; 

2 


THE  BEGINNING  YEARS 

and  yet  the  seeming  intervention  of  circumstance 
was  all  that  diverted  McCormack  from  the  wrong 
course  to  the  right. 

Some  provocative  soul,  with  good  intentions 
but  an  opaque  mind,  may  suggest  that  if  John 
had  presented  himself  as  he  had  planned  for  a 
certain  Civil  Service  examination  in  Dublin  he 
would  have  passed  into  governmental  activities 
and  out  of  music. 

But  did  he  forget?  Or  was  his  apparent 
idling  hour  on  the  Liffey's  banks  a  response  of 
the  artist  nature  to  a  predestined  call? 

The  hundreds  of  thousands  who  comprise  the 
McCormack  phalanxes  will  decide  unerringly 
for  themselves,  because  they  have  got  the  mes- 
sages his  interpretations  revealed. 

And  that  is  the  secret  of  it  all,  the  why  and 
wherefore  of  his  being  as  a  singer:  which  has 
made  him  a  lyric  star  who  puts  truth  and  sim- 
plicity above  all  else,  who  feels  with  the  heart, 
who  sees  with  the  mind  and  binds  the  two  into 
one. 

It  is  some  years  since  this  impression  grew  into 
a  conviction  and  thus  has  become  an  accepted 
fact  in  our  daily  lives.  But  now  that  he  has 
made  himself  an  institution  the  public  of  every 

3 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

country  wherein  his  voice  is  heard  regards  him  as 
part  of  its  own.  And  so  it  is  appropriate  to  write 
of  those  things  concerning  him  which  these  pub- 
lics have  the  right  to  know — and  to  record 
faithfully  the  story  John  McCormack  himself 
tells. 

It  is  a  fascinating  story,  too,  as  subsequent 
pages  will  show — a  tale  of  an  artist's  rise  to  fame 
in  a  space  of  time  so  short  as  to  savor  of  the 
Arabian  Nights.  For  no  other  such  individual 
meteoric  ascendancy  may  be  found  in  music's 
history.  The  probability  is  that  none  other  will 
recur. 

It  is  this  amazing  circumstance  that  gives  per- 
tinence to  this  volume.  McCormack  himself 
was  opposed  to  its  preparation  and  publication. 
When  the  matter  was  broached,  two  years  ago,  he 
strenuously  objected.  "I'm  too  young  a  man," 
he  declared,  "to  be  written  about.  The  print- 
ing of  the  life  and  career  of  one  barely  past  thirty 
whose  professional  efforts  lie  within  a  decade 
might  impress  people  as  premature." 

That  attitude  is  typical  of  McCormack.  But 
his  counselors,  from  their  points  of  vantage,  dis- 
cerned what  the  tenor  could  not  see.  He  has  al- 
ways been  diffident ;  he  still  is.  And  nothing  so 

4 


THE  BEGINNING  YEARS 

offends  his  sense  of  consistency  as  a  word  or  deed 
out  of  time  and  place. 

His  persuasion  brought  reluctant  yielding,  a 
final  concession,  I  am  moved  to  think,  that  the 
public  to  which  he  feels  he  belongs  had  to  be 
considered.  So  the  decision  was  made,  and 
with  an  unassuming  charm  demanding  emphasis 
at  this  point  in  the  book,  in  order  that  those  who 
read  on  may  catch  and  hold  to  another  strand 
of  a  sensitive  nature  which,  in  the  face  of  sur- 
mounting success,  continues  upstanding  and  un- 
spoiled. 

It  was  a  summer's  day,  with  the  sun  shining, 
when  we  began.  McCormack  sat  on  the  veranda 
of  Rocklea,  his  Noroton,  Connecticut,  villa,  gaz- 
ing upon  the  waters  of  Long  Island  Sound.  He 
had  sat  that  way  for  some  minutes;  in  a  suit  of 
tennis  flannels,  his  stalwart  body  relaxed  in  an 
armchair.  I  waited  for  his  opening  words. 

"What  a  debt  a  man  owes  his  mother  and 
father!"  he  said.  "We  never  know,  when  we 
are  young.  It  is  only  when  time  has  passed,  and 
the  world  gives  us  one  thing  after  another,  that 
their  tending  is  felt.  For  what  I  have  been  able 
to  accomplish  I  am  obligated  to  many;  very 
deeply  to  a  generQus  few.  But  every  year  which 

5 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

drops  behind  leaves  me  with  a  fuller  conscious- 
ness of  that  unpayable  debt  to  father  and 
mother." 

He  paused  and  lowered  his  cmn  upon  one 
tanned  hand.  He  continued  gazing  over  the 
hundred-yards'  stretch  of  lawn  upon  the  waters 
of  the  Sound.  Yet  I  do  not  think  he  saw  them 
dancing  under  the  sun's  rays,  which  seemingly 
turned  them  into  bits  of  silver.  He  was  in  his 
old  home  again;  three  thousand  miles  eastward, 
in  the  historic  Irish  village  of  Athlone. 

He  sat  in  that  contemplative  attitude  for  half 
a  minute.  "That's  one  of  the  great  things," 
he  announced. 

I  missed  his  drift,  and  told  him  so. 

"Having  made  enough  of  myself,"  he  ex- 
plained, "to  be  a  credit  to  my  parents." 

I  acquiesced,  in  silence,  with  a  nod. 

"And,"  he  added  with  a  gratified  smile,  "be- 
ing able  to  see  they  have  some  of  the  comforts 
they  deserved/  I've  been  singularly  blessed, 
perhaps  overmuch;  but" — and  here  his  voice 
slipped  a  tremulous  note — "no  one  thing  has 
filled  the  heart  of  me  as  making  my  mother  and 
father  happy." 

He  said  no  more,  after  those  words,  for  a  long 
6 


THE  BEGINNING  YEARS 

time.  He  just  sat  there  like  the  big  and  world- 
loving  boy  he  is,  sunk  in  the  joy  of  having  brought 
contentment  to  those  who  gave  him  life  and 
care. 

Those  of  you  who  thrill  under  the  spell  of  the 
golden  tone  he  spins  and  confess  to  an  occasional 
glistening  eye  from  the  pathos  with  which  he 
clothes  some  phrase  need  wonder  no  longer.  He 
may  be  an  actor — David  Belasco  asserts  stoutly 
that  he  is — but  what  he  puts  into  his  songs  is  the 
real  thing.  No  artistic  veneer  in  any  one  of 
them.  Finish  of  detail  and  style,  yes,  and  much 
of  it.  Words,  too,  which  you  not  only  can  hear 
distinctly  to  the  last  syllable  but  can  also  feel 
the  subtlest  meaning  of — as  John  McCormack 
sings  them. 

For  all  of  which  there  is  reason,  in  abun- 
dance. 

I  should  like,  if  such  impossible  thing  were 
possible,  that  every  man,  woman  and  child  who 
appreciates  this  tenor  at  his  true  worth  could 
have  seen  him  that  June  afternoon  in  Nineteen 
Hundred  Eighteen  and  been  close  enough  to  him 
to  have  felt  what  I  was  privileged  to  feel. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  demanded  suddenly, 
bringing  himself  out  of  the  past  with  an  internal 

7 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

jerk,  "I'd  not  mind  risking  one  of  those  aeroplane 
trans-Atlantic  flights  they're  talking  about — if 
we  could  start  off  now." 

"Straight  to  the  town  of  Athlone?" 

He  smiled.  "Yes,"  he  answered  eagerly. 
"Right  up  the  River  Shannon  from  Loop  Head 
to  Athlone,  and  on  past  to  Greystones,  near  Dub- 
lin, where  my  father  and  mother  and  sisters  now 
live.  Tell  me,"  dropping  into  one  of  the  ro- 
guish moods  he  delights  in,  "is  there  any  chance, 
do  you  think?" 

We  laughed;  and  presently  McCormack  got 
back  again  to  the  subject. 

"I  was  born  on  June  14,  1884,  our  Flag  Day 
here  in  America.  It  was  a  Saturday.  I  was  the 
fourth  of  eleven  children,  which  is  some  indica- 
tion of  the  burden  my  father  bore  in  providing  for 
his  family's  support. 

"We  were  genuinely  poor,  as  the  goods  of  this 
world  go,  but  fortunate  in  those  things  which  cre- 
ate happiness  in  the  home.  Ours  was  a  Catholic 
Christian  hearth,  and  the  guidance  my  brother 
and  sisters  and  I  received  proved  for  our  best 
good. 

"Both  father  and  mother  held  the  natural 
parental  anxiety  for  their  children's  welfare. 

8 


THE  BEGINNING  YEARS 

They  reared  us  under  close  supervision,  and 
strictly;  but  their  companionship  was  something 
we  always  sought.  I  knew,  well  enough,  the 
pathway  of  right  and  duty.  Yet  the  wisdom  of 
treating  it  was  shown  me  in  a  tactful  way.  I 
realize  that  my  disciplining  was  rigid,  though  it 
never  held  a  harsh  touch. 

"Father  was  stern  enough,  but  I  like  to  feel  it 
to  have  been  more  a  quality  of  dignity;  a  reflec- 
tion of  his  serious  outlook  upon  life  and  the  re- 
sponsibilities which  were  his.  He  was  superin- 
tendent in  a  department  of  the  Athlone  Woolen 
Mills,  and  he  worked  hard,  for  which  he  received 
a  salary  of  'two-pound-ten'  a  week.  Mother,  too, 
was  industrious ;  always  gentle  and  a  just  arbiter 
of  such  disputes  as  we  youngsters  had." 

It  is  an  accurate  picture  McCormack  drew  of 
his  early  environment.  The  facts  are  attested 
by  Bishop  Michael  J.  Curley,  of  the  Diocese  of 
St.  Augustine  (Florida) ,  who  was  one  of  John's 
Athlone  playmates  and  who  has  continued 
through  succeeding  years  a  chum  and  valued  ad- 
viser. 

"He  was  a  good  boy,"  said  Bishop  Curley, 
"and  very  young  to  realize  the  dignity  of  the 
world.  His  own  inherent  qualities  were  of 

9 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

course  mainly  responsible,  but  historic  Athlone 
and  its  ways  did  their  part." 

Historic,  Athlone  truly  is;  and  it  has  pro- 
duced three  illustrious  sons:  The  Right  Rever- 
end Bishop  Curley  himself,  youngest  of  Catholic 
bishops  in  America;  T.  P.  O'Connor,  one  of 
Ireland's  best  loved  statesmen,  the  "Tay  Pay"  of 
literary  and  journalistic  fame ;  and  John  McCor- 
mack;  a  triumvirate,  surely,  which  instills  com- 
munity pride  into  the  nine  thousand  people  com- 
prising the  population  of  this  quaint  town  by  the 
Shannon  River. 

"Andrew  and  Hannah  McCormack  did  not 
wait  long  after  the  birth  of  their  first  son  to  have 
him  baptised,"  said  Bishop  Curley;  "he  was  only 
three  days  old  when  Father  Donohue  sprinkled 
drops  of  water  on  his  head  and  pronounced  him 
'John  Francis.' 

"And  it  was  a  christening  apropos  of  an  occa- 
sion— that  particular  Tuesday  being  the  feast 
of  the  nativity  of  St.  John  the  Baptist.  The 
ceremony  took  place  in  St.  Mary's  Church,  where 
the  boy  afterward  became  a  devout  worshipper." 

Bishop  Curley  related  these  facts  during  a  lull 
in  the  story  McCormack  had  begun  to  tell  on  that 

10 


THE  BEGINNING  YEARS 

June  afternoon  at  Rocklea.  The  tenor,  respond- 
ing to  Mrs.  McCormack's  summons,  was  on  his 
way  into  the  house  just  as  Bishop  Curley  came  out 
on  the  veranda.  I  could  not  well  miss  the  looks 
these  men  exchanged  as  they  passed;  Bishop 
Curley's  eyes  shone  as  he  took  a  seat. 

He,  too,  seemed  retrospective  that  afternoon. 
He  sat  there,  looking  westward  much  as  McCor- 
mack  had  looked ;  with  shoulders  squared  and  his 
fine  profile  silhouetted  against  the  foliage  beyond. 

I  was  not  long  in  discovering  the  brilliant  mind 
of  which  John  had  told  me.     Bishop   Curley 
talked  easily,  as  an  eloquent  man  will  who  is  mas- 
ter of  his  subject. 

"Athlone,"  he  said,  with  a  touch  of  pride  in 
his  voice,  "was  a  garrison  town.  It  has  been 
that  since  the  days  of  the  contest  between  James 

II  and  William,  Prince  of  Orange — when  these 
monarchs  clashed  for  no  less  a  reward  than  the 
crown  of  England. 

"John  will  tell  you  that  some  of  his  own  bouts 
at  fisticuffs  with  his  playmates  took  place  on 
identical  spots  where  Irish  soldiers  of  long  ago 
stood  shoulder  to  shoulder  in  battle  for  their 
rights.  And  like  his  dead  and  gone  countrymen, 

11 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

whose  fortunes  swayed  first  in  the  proprietorship 
of  their  native  soil  and  then  to  its  loss,  John 
tasted  both  victory  and  defeat. 

"I  could  relate  much  concerning  those  early 
events,  and  of  moments  wherein  Norman  settlers 
did  their  full  share  with  the  Irish.  But  out  of 
those  troublous  times  stands  one  on  which  Ath- 
lone's  glory  rests — the  Fight  on  the  Bridge. 

"Its  history  all  Ireland  delights  in ;  a  proof  of 
national  courage  and  good  red  blood.  King 
James  II  held  Athlone,  but  the  Prince  of  Orange's 
commanding  general,  the  Dutch  de  Ginckle,  chal- 
lenged for  its  possession,  and  battle  ensued. 

"Colonel  Fitzgerald,  a  junior  commanding 
officer  of  the  defending  Irish  forces,  fought  well, 
but  he  was  outnumbered.  And  at  last  he  made 
his  stand,  where  General  St.  Ruth  had  ordered, 
at  Athlone  Bridge.  A  dragoon  sergeant,  and  six 
of  his  men  who  volunteered,  grasped  axes  and 
faced  the  musketry  fire  of  the  foe  in  an  effort  to 
smash  an  opening  in  the  bridge  that  would  check 
the  invaders;  but  bullets  sent  them  to  an  heroic 
death.  Six  more  men  volunteered  to  complete 
what  had  been  begun,  and  four  of  this  little  band 
were  leveled  by  de  Ginckle's  soldiers.  Yet  there 
was  triumph  for  the  two  who  lived — the  bridge 

12 


ClfjHght,    Vndirwttd  &   Undmuttd 

The  Bridge  at  Athlone 


THE  BEGINNING  YEARS 

had  been  cut,  the  planking  flung  into  the  river 
and  the  enemy  was  stopped. 

"A  premature  celebration,  permitted  that 
evening  by  General  St.  Ruth,  proved  disastrous, 
for  de  Ginckle  renewed  his  assault  upon  his  un- 
suspecting adversary,  crossed  the  river  and  took 
the  town.  But  the  Fight  at  the  Bridge  still  lives 
and  will,  always.  It  was  put  into  verse  by 
Aubrey  de  Vere,  and  John  McCormack  has  re- 
cited his  poem  in  the  Marist  Brothers'  school,  at 
Athlone;  the  lines  are  these:" 

Does  any  man  dream  that  a  Gael  can  fear? 

Of  a  thousand  deeds  let  him  learn  but  one! 
The  Shannon  swept  onward,  broad  and  clear, 

Between  the  leaguers  and  worn  Athlone. 

"Break  down  the  bridge!"     Six  warriors  rushed 
Through  the  storm  of  shot  and  the  storm  of  shell, 

With  late,  but  certain,  victory  flushed 
The  grim  Dutch  gunners  eyed  them  well. 

They  wrenched  at  the  planks  9mid  a  hail  of  fire; 

They  fell  in  death,  their  work  half  done; 
The  bridge  stood  fast;  and  nigh  and  nigher 

The  foe  swarmed  darkly,  densely  on. 

"0,  who  for  Erin  will  strike  a  stroke? 

Who  hurl  yon  planks  where  the  waters  roar?" 
13 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

Six  warriors  forth  from  their  comrades  broke, 
And  flung  them  upon  that  bridge  once  more. 

Again  at  the  rocking  planks  they  dashed, 

And  four  dropped  dead  and  two  remained; 

The    huge    beams    groaned,    and    the    arch    down- 
crashed — 
Two  stalwart  swimmers  the  margin  gained. 

St.  Ruth  in  his  stirrup  stood  up  and  cried, 
"I  have  seen  no  deed  like  that  in  France: 

With  a  toss  of  his  head  Sarsfield  replied, 

"They    had    luck,    the    dogs!     'Twas    a    merry 
chance!" 

0,  many  a  year  upon  Shannon's  side 

They  sang  upon  moor  and  they  sang  upon  heath 

Of  the  twain  that  breasted  that  raging  tide 

'Mid  the  ten  that  had  shaken  hands  with  Death!" 

Bishop  Curley  told,  also,  of  the  romance  that 
steeps  Athlone,  of  other  traditions  than  those  of 
clash  and  strife  and  of  the  learning  in  which  it 
abounds.  It  was  in  such  an  atmosphere  that 
John  McCormack  thrived,  where  man's  fibre  and 
his  mind  count  for  most. 


14 


CHAPTER  II 

EARLY    SCHOOL    DAYS 

"I  suppose  Bishop  Curley  has  been  telling 
every  secret  of  my  past,"  announced  McCormack, 
as  he  came  out  of  the  house  and  over  to  where  we 
sat  on  the  veranda.  He  looked  down  at  us,  a 
twinkle  lurking  in  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  and  put 
an  arm  on  the  shoulder  of  his  old-time  comrade. 
"Run  on  into  the  house,  now,  like  the  good  man 
you  are;  there's  a  little  lady  waiting,  and  her 
name's  Mrs.  McCormack." 

Bishop  Curley  smiled  and  got  up.  The  tenor 
watched  him  until  he  passed  through  the  door- 
way from  his  sight.  Then  he  turned  to  me. 
"A  great  man,"  murmured  John,  "and — friend." 

He  dropped  into  the  chair  he  had  left  and  ex- 
tended his  legs  straight  before  him.  "Where  did 
we  leave  off?"  he  queried. 

"Well,  you  were  about  to  undertake  a  hazard- 
ous aerial  cruise;  but  Bishop  Curley  turned  back 
your  life's  history  a  few  pages.  Suppose  you 

15 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

recount  some  of  those  experiences  which  began 
at  school." 

"Ah,"  observed  McCormack,  "prying  into  the 
extent  of  my  education?" 

"The  early  part,  first,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"Of  course  not,"  he  conceded,  drifting  quickly 
with  innate  courtesy  from  his  humorous  turn  to 
the  serious.  "I  was  a  lucky  lad,  though  I  didn't 
grasp  it  all  at  once.  Most  boys  don't.  Still,  I 
think  I  was  not  overlong  in  making  the  discovery. 
There  was  the  preliminary  home  training,  pains- 
takingly given;  then  the  day  of  my  advent  in 
school.  And  in  this  I  was  more  fortunate  than 
the  vast  majority. 

"You  have  heard  of  the  Marist  Brothers. 
They  were  skilled  educators — sons  of  the  saintly 
'Champagnat' — whose  influence  upon  the  com- 
munity of  Athlone  none  can  overestimate.  To 
their  care  I  was  entrusted  when  I  was  three  and 
a  half,  and  with  them  I  remained  until  the  age  of 
twelve." 

In  that  portion  of  his  story,  however,  McCor- 
mack did  not  particularize  as  to  certain  essentials 
which  his  public  should  know.  But  Bishop 
Curley  informed  me ;  explaining  how  exceptional 
a  mind  the  then  youthful  John  disclosed,  the  tal- 

16 


EARLY  SCHOOL  DAYS 

ents  he  evidenced  at  many  a  turn,  and  the  intel- 
lectual advancement  gained  when  his  tenth  birth- 
day anniversary  arrived. 

"He  was  passed  at  that  time  into  the  Inter- 
mediate school,"  said  the  Bishop,  "and  became 
absorbed  in  his  studies.  He  could  not  have  been 
otherwise,  for  entering  upon  the  competitive 
sphere  of  Irish  examinations  he  became,  at 
twelve,  a  Burser.  At  thirteen  he  gained  the  cov- 
eted title  of  Exhibitioner,  which  carried  with  it 
college  scholarship  rights  and  a  cash  prize  of 
twenty  pounds;  that,  I  can  assure  you,  is  an 
honor. 

"This  was  an  introspective  period  in  John's 
life.  Boy  that  he  was,  nothing  appeared  com- 
parable in  interest  to  that  contained  in  the  classic 
teachings  he  received.  Unconsciously,  he  was 
establishing  an  intellectual  foundation  for  the 
future  which  he  little  suspected. 

"But  there  were  dream  days,  and  many  of  their 
hours  John  spent  strolling  and  singing  through 
grass-waving  meadows  along  the  Shannon's 
banks.  He  was  a  normal  lad,  who  loved  a  game 
with  his  companions,  and  while  many  may  not 
have  suspected  his  natural  gifts  and  brilliance 
there  were  those  who  did  know,  and  who  watched 

17 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

admiringly  his  progress.  For  he  knew  very  lit- 
tle outside  the  Catholic  church,  his  school  and 
humble  living." 

I  brought  to  McCormack's  attention  some  of 
these  essentials  which,  in  his  narrative,  he  had 
omitted.  "Bishop  Curley  does  not  exaggerate, 
I  take  it." 

"Well,"  said  John  hesitatingly,  "I  would  not 
like  to  contradict  the  Bishop,  but — does  it  occur 
to  you  that  he  might  be  prejudiced?" 

It  was  the  McCormack  way,  again;  another 
instance  of  his  inclination  to  slip  over  matters 
which  put  him  in  a  favorable  light  and  which  he 
prefers  to  let  others  relate. 

"I  admit  I  liked  to  study,"  he  confessed,  push- 
ing on  in  an  amusing  effort  to  escape  the  issue  in- 
troduced. "And  I  liked,  then  as  now,  to  play. 
You  know  the  adage  about  the  effect  too  much 
work  had  on  Jack,  and  Jack's  my  name — as  you 
know. 

"I  had  no  objections  to  a  fling,  for  I  was 
healthy  enough  and  fond  of  anything  athletic. 
I  enjoyed,  also,  those  pranks  towards  which  boys, 
the  world  over,  seem  by  nature  to  drift.  I'd 
have  been  a  queer  lad  if  I  had  held  no  such  in- 
clinations. But  there  wasn't  any  meanness  in 

18 


EARLY  SCHOOL  DAYS 

me.  I  tried  to  be  above-board  in  what  I 
did." 

People  generally  will  no  doubt  think  more 
of  McCormack  in  knowing  that  he  was  no  dif- 
ferent, in  most  ways,  from  other  humans.  No 
analysis  will  yield  any  different  conclusion.  Yet 
his  capricious  moments  did  not  appreciably  ex- 
pand until  he  entered  college — at  the  ripe  age 
of  twelve.  Even  then  he  preserved  for  some 
time  the  serious  mien  which  had  become  habitual 
and  was  ingrained  as  part  of  him. 

His  entrance  into  the  Diocesan  College  of 
the  Immaculate  Conception  of  Summerhill,  at 
Sligo,  on  October  15,  1896,  was  more  or  less  an 
event.  For  he  had  won  a  free  place  by  competi- 
tive examination  and  was  starting  upon  a  phase 
of  his  youth  in  which  a  notable  personality, 
Bishop  Clancy,  was  to  exert  upon  him  a  lasting 
effect. 

Up  to  this  point  no  word  of  his  voice  or  sing- 
ing had  come  from  the  tenor's  lips.  I  purposely 
avoided  any  suggestion.  To  let  him  relate  his 
story,  in  his  own  way,  was  my  desire — for  spon- 
taneity's sake.  Small  need  to  fear  that  his 
logical  reasoning  would  make  a  slip  in  the  se- 
quence. He  would  reach  the  beginnings  of  his 

19 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

singing  impulses,  I  figured,  in  due  time;  and 
my  assumption  proved  not  at  fault. 

From  the  roadway,  back  of  us,  came  to  our 
ears  the  musical  sound  of  an  automobile  warn- 
ing. It  was  one  of  those  chiming  affairs,  made 
of  tubes  of  brass.  McCormack  lifted  his  head  to 
glance  toward  the  strip  of  road. 

'Tis  a  pleasant  invitation,  those  chimes 
make,  to  get  to  somewhere  out  of  the  way.  But 
perhaps  the  machine  has  a  soft  heart, — who 
knows?  I  remember  my  own  heart  was  soft 
enough — the  day  I  first  sang  before  a  crowd." 
He  was  getting  to  it. 

"When  was  that?" 

"Twenty-five  years  ago ;  I  was  nine  and  a  slip 
of  a  lad  and  shy.  It  was  in  the  Marist  Brothers' 
school,  on  a  feast  day,  when  Dr.  Woodlock, 
Bishop  of  Clonmacnoise,  was  the  guest  of  honor. 
I'll  not  forget  the  sensation  at  hearing  the  words 
which  Brother  Hugh  whispered  in  my  ear.  'We 
want  you  to  sing,  John,  for  Bishop  Woodlock.' 
With  that  the  good  man  lifted  me  upon  a  table, 
and  left  me  looking  at  the  gathering. 

"Like  many  another  Irish  boy  I  had  sung:  in 
my  own  room  at  home,  or  a  snatch  of  some  ballad 
as  I  walked  outdoors.  But  never  had  I  sung 

20 


—  c 

O   1) 
u  > 

-W 


ss 

o 
u 


EARLY  SCHOOL  DAYS 

seriously  before  what  may  be  described  an  audi- 
ence. Different  persons  had  told  me  I  had  a 
nice  voice,  which  warmed  me  because  I  love 
to  sing. 

"But  there's  a  difference  between  singing  for 
one's  self  and  singing  to  others,  who  may  be 
more  or  less  critical — according  to  the  mood  and 
capacity.  Not  that  I  expected  to  be  severely 
judged  on  that  occasion,  either.  I  daresay  it 
was  no  more  than  a  natural  feeling  almost  any  lad 
would  have  felt ;  a  human  sensation  which  comes 
when  one  essays  for  the  first  time  a  task  on 
which  judgment  must  pass.  And  the  presence 
of  Dr.  Woodlock  was  most  impressive. 

"A  great  deal  flashed  through  my  childish 
mind  as  I  was  lifted  to  that  table.  As  I  stood 
facing  my  auditors — the  Bishop,  schoolmates  and 
teachers — I  felt  queer  around  my  middle.  No 
absolute  fear,  mind  you;  just  a  sudden  con- 
sciousness that  I  wanted  to  do  well — and  won- 
dering if  I  would." 

He  broke  off,  there,  allowing  himself  a 
reminiscent  smile.  He  must  have  sung  that 
song,  silently  and  to  himself,  quite  through  from 
beginning  to  end,  for  it  was  a  matter  of  minutes 
before  he  again  spoke. 

21 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

'  'Shades  of  Evening  Close  Not  O'er  Us,'  said 
McCormack  softly, — "that  was  the  song  in  which 
are  the  words,  'Absence  makes  the  heart  grow 
fonder.'  Every  one  kept  very  still  and  atten- 
tive. I'd  like  to  have  a  record  made  of  that 
song,  as  I  sang  it  that  day — just  for  Mrs.  Mc- 
Cormack and  the  kiddies  and  myself." 

I  sat  studying  him  as  his  thoughts  drifted, 
again,  to  that  spot  in  the  Marist  Brothers'  school. 
Presently  John  came  out  of  his  mental  journey- 
ing. 

"I  think  they  must  have  liked  it,"  he  buoy- 
antly announced,  with  a  complete  change  of 
manner.  "They  seemed  to."  And  I  presume 
McCormack  was  right. 

"I  had  no  extensive  repertoire,"  he  informed 
me,  "but  what  I  knew  I  knew.  And  the  sing- 
ing spirit,  I  guess,  must  have  been  there.  Like 
the  man  born  to  be  hanged,  I  possibly  was  in- 
tended to  sing." 

There  came,  then,  an  interruption.  John 
didn't  seem  to  mind.  He  appeared  rather  to 
welcome  it — in  the  form  of  a  girl  of  nine,  lithe 
and  jubilant  and  affectionately  inclined.  And 
straightway  Gwendolyn  McCormack  danced  over 

22 


EARLY  SCHOOL  DAYS 

to  her  father  and  mussed  his  hair  in  most  familiar 
fashion. 

In  the  case  of  Gwenny,  photographs  do  not 
serve.  They  miss,  for  one  thing,  the  spirit  of 
Irish  beauty  which  is  hers  and  which,  for  full 
appreciation,  must  be  seen  in  the  flesh.  The 
glint  of  her  hair,  too,  is  something  for  actual 
sight.  An  optimistic  lass,  with  bubbling  nature, 
a  sturdy  little  body  and  unspoiled  ways. 

And  for  some  reason — perhaps  because  she  is 
his  daughter — John  appeared  fond  of  Gwenny. 
I  asked  him  why — and  he  grinned  and  replied: 
"Ask  her." 

But  before  I  could  this  energetic  miss  was 
off  and  away  and  out  of  sight. 

We  followed  as  far  as  the  edge  of  the  veranda, 
and  walked  together  across  the  lawn  to  the 
beach.  The  tenor  became  more  concerned,  at 
that  moment,  with  nature.  He  cast  about  for 
wide,  flat  stones  and  finding  them  flung  them 
zipping  over  the  water's  surface,  in  that  process 
known  to  the  youthful  contingent  as  "skipping." 

"How  many  can  you  do?"  I  wanted  to  know. 

"I  did  eleven — once." 

"El-e-ev-en?" 

23 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

"Well,  what's  a  matter  of  a  few  skips  .  .  . 
between  friends?" 

"Oh,  yes!  What  you  might  term  skipping 
the  count  rather  than  counting  the  skips." 

"Here,  now,"  objected  John,  "you're  not  to 
put  that  in  the  book.  I'll  say  all  the  clever 
things." 

In  the  evening  we  resumed. 

"It  was  a  trim  little  stone  house,  where  we 
lived,"  said  McCormack, — "only  six  rooms,  with 
a  slate  roof.  But  comfortable  within,  and  very 
near  St.  Mary's  Church.  When  the  family  was 
complete  there  were  thirteen  of  us — eleven  chil- 
dren :  Mary  Ann,  who  died  as  an  infant ;  Peter, 
who  also  passed  away  when  he  was  a  baby; 
Isabella,  who  lived  until  she  was  sixteen;  Jane, 
now  married  and  living  in  England;  John  (that's 
myself) ;  Mary  Ann,  whom  mother  and  father 
cannot  allow  out  of  their  sight  without  being 
unhappy ;  Andrew,  a  fine  lad,  who  made  this  truly 
wonderful  request  of  me  on  his  death-bed,  'Put 
your  head  against  mine,  so  it  will  rest  against 
something  hard,  like  the  Lord's  did,  when  he 
died' ;  Thomas,  who  died  very  young;  James,  now 
a  wireless  operator  in  the  British  Navy ;  Agnes,  at 

24 


EARLY  SCHOOL  DAYS 

present  with  my  father  and  mother  and  waiting 
to  be  called  to  France,  as  a  nurse,  and  Florence, 
who  likewise  is  at  the  parental  home  in  Grey- 
stones. 

"Father  was  a  true  Irishman ;  he  loved  music. 
I  well  remember  seeing  him  at  the  piano,  picking 
out  on  the  black  keys  with  one  finger  'The 
Wearin'  of  the  Green.'  So  what  piping  I  did, 
by  way  of  singing  at  five  and  thereafter,  he  never 
minded.  Nor  mother." 

"County  Westmeath  tunes,  eh?" 

McCormack  laughed  at  this.  "Yes,  and 
tunes  from  other  parts  of  Ireland,  sung  in  those 
days  in  Westmeath ;  that's  where  the  McCormack 
homestead  stood." 

"Not  in  Roscommon?" 

John  shook  his  head.  "I'm  aware  of  the  dis- 
cussions as  to  that,  but  we  were  on  the  West- 
meath side  of  the  Shannon  whose  swirling  cen- 
tre was  the  dividing  line  between  the  counties. 
No,  I  was  born  in  Westmeath,  and  I  should  know 
— I  was  right  there. 

"Michael  Curley — he's  the  eminent  Bishop 
Curley  now — was  one  of  my  earliest  playmates. 
Older  than  I  by  four  years  and,  bless  him,  a  good 
influence,  even  then.  He  used  to  wait  around 

25 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

for  me  at  school  when  father  first  took  me  there, 
on  his  shoulders. 

"Time  brought  us  continually  closer.  We 
had  much  in  common.  He  was  an  example  in 
studiousness  and  character;  a  safe  leader  to  fol- 
low. The  Bishop — the  Michael  of  those  other 
times — always  had  a  cheering  word  for  my  voice 
and  singing. 

'  'Sing  on,  John,'  he  would  say,  and  thus  en- 
couraged I  obeyed. 

"The  songs  I  knew  then  were  good  songs, 
though  few.  'Believe  me,  if  all  those  endearing 
young  charms'  was  one.  My  mother  taught  it 
to  me,  and  though  I  sing  it  to  this  day  I  have 
never  found  it  necessary  to  change  so  much  as  a 
breath-mark  in  it.  'Annie  Laurie'  was  another 
of  my  youthful  songs ;  so  was  'The  Irishman'  and 
yet  another  'Jessie,  the  Flower  of  Dunblane,' 
which  I  shall  some  day  put  on  my  concert  pro- 
grammes. 

"But  the  vocal  part  of  my  early  schooldays 
was  subordinated  to  the  more  serious  duty  of 
learning.  The  desire  for  knowledge  was  strong 
in  our  community,  and  those  who  commanded 
knowledge  commanded,  in  corresponding  de- 
gree, the  respect  of  the  citizens. 

26 


EARLY  SCHOOL  DAYS 

"Athlone,  as  the  Bishop  has  told  you,  was  a 
garrison  town.  Like  all  of  its  kind,  it  had  a  cer- 
tain culture — despite  the  fact  that  the  people 
were  simple  in  tastes  and  felt  the  constructive  ef- 
fects of  religion,  in  which  the  Catholic  faith 
exerted  a  most  beneficent  influence. 

"I  would  not  change  Athlone,  if  I  could,  nor 
were  I  living  over  again  those  days  would  I  ask 
to  have  any  altered  in  the  littlest  way.  The 
town  was  kind  to  me,  and  though  my  disciplin- 
ing was  severe,  it  begets  its  reward  and  few  suf- 
fer from  its  touch.' 


27 


CHAPTER  III 

COLLEGE    DAYS 

John  did  not  enter  upon  his  college  career  in 
the  propitious  manner  that  prevails  here  in 
America.  Andrew  McCormack's  meagre  in- 
come, and  the  manifold  needs  for  it,  left  only  a 
few  pounds  a  year  to  be  sent  the  boy  for  his 
clothing.  John's  success  in  winning  an  allow- 
ance as  an  Exhibitioner  provided  for  his  tuition 
and  left  a  small  sum  sufficient  for  other  neces- 
sary expenses.  But  from  October  15,  1896, 
to  June  23, 1902,  which  marked  his  college  days, 
economy  was  McCormack's  watchword.  For- 
tunately the  purchasing  power  of  money  in  Ire- 
land, at  that  time,  was  large.  'Twas  lucky 
for  me,  else  I  should  have  fallen  by  the  intel- 
lectual wayside,"  said  John. 

No  more  than  a  child  when  he  passed  his  ex- 
aminations, McCormack  was  strangely  matured 
in  his  ways.  The  youngest  of  his  classmates, 
he  approached  his  studies  with  calm  assurance, 

28 


COLLEGE  DAYS 

and  as  he  was  one  of  the  six  Exhibitioners  in 
Summerhill  College  he  attracted  the  attention  of 
the  saintly  Bishop  Clancy  himself.  The  ruler 
of  the  Diocese  of  Elphin  had  a  scintillating  mind, 
with  keen  perceptions.  And  observing  this 
student  he  discovered  more  than  the  intellectual 
talents  he  possessed;  he  probed  the  soul  of  the 
lad,  finding  there  a  craving  for  song. 

"Long  before  I  was  aware  of  it,  Bishop  Clancy 
was  nurturing  that  part  of  me,"  declared  John. 
"He  did  it  with  a  subtlety  such  as  few  men 
could  have  known;  for  all  the  while  my  intel- 
lectual development  progressed,  and  without  con- 
sciousness of  the  process  I  was  growing  in  two 
ways. 

"Have  you  ever  known  homesickness?  I  ex- 
perienced it  in  that  fall  of  1896.  It  came  and 
stopped  with  me  like  an  unwelcome  relative  who 
never  knows  when  to  go.  Bishop  Clancy  ef- 
fected my  cure;  his  kindliness  and  the  cheer  of 
his  voice  and  words  seemed  to  start  my  heart 
beating  anew.  He  was  a  stimulant,  with  an  in- 
describably wonderful  way. 

"I  worked,"  said  the  tenor,  "very  hard.  And 
when  homesickness  was  sufficiently  dispelled  the 
world  breathed  for  me  a  new  note.  I  decided 

29 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

to  live  a  while  longer,  and  to  continue  preparing 
for  the  career  my  father  had  his  hopes  set  on  for 
me.  Yet  there  were  doubting  moments,  with 
each  day.  The  Church  had  its  appeal,  but  I 
could  not  shake  that  vague  Questioning  as  to  my 
fitness  to  be  its  servant." 

Bishop  Curley  touched  on  this  phase  of 
churchly  matters  shortly  before  he  left  New 
York  for  St.  Augustine  again,  not  long  after  our 
conversation  at  Noroton.  "There  are  some  stu- 
dents for  the  priesthood  whom  it  is  better  to  dis- 
suade from  that  wish,"  said  he,  "and  others  who 
eliminate  themselves  in  a  perfectly  normal  way. 
John  McCormack  was  of  the  latter  kind." 

We  were  trudging  along  a  Connecticut  road, 
near  Rocklea,  during  this  period  of  McCormack's 
life  tale.  He's  a  free-swinging  pedestrian,  with 
a  stride  that  gets  somewhere.  Nearing  the  tiny 
church  which  stands  halfway  between  Noroton 
and  Stamford,  where  the  McCormack  family  wor- 
ships, John  came  to  a  full  halt. 

"Now  then,"  he  began  by  way  of  opening  his 
argument,  "I  ask  if  I'm  not  a  greater  help  at 
pulling  the  boat  than  as  a  pilot?  Bishop 
Clancy  thought  so,  and  his  vision  was  clear." 

McCormack  stood  in  the  roadway,  disregard- 
30 


COLLEGE  DAYS 

ing  the  heat  of  mid-day,  and  gazing  long  at  this 
particular  domicile  that  helps  foster  the  faith 
he  was  born  in.  "Yes,"  he  said  slowly,  "I'm 
a  good  soldier;  better  that,  don't  you  think,  than 
a  commonplace  general?" 

John  was  right.  Bishop  Clancy  thought  so; 
and  Bishop  Curley  agrees,  which  should  have 
some  influence  in  the  matter. 

"There  have  been  stories  to  the  effect  that 
my  father  was  heart-broken  over  my  not  having 
entered  the  priesthood,"  said  McCormack,  "and 
they  are  wrong.  It  would  have  pleased  him  had 
I  become  a  priest,  that  I  know;  but  his  ambi- 
tions for  me  were  always  of  a  different  sort.  He 
anticipated  seeing  me  eventually  launched  in 
either  medicine  or  the  law.  My  having  been 
placed  in  the  Marist  Brothers'  school  was  a  per- 
fectly natural  procedure  on  father's  part.  It 
was  a  wonderful  educational  institution,  and 
though  it  offered  exceptional  facilities  to  who- 
ever had  leanings  towards  the  Church,  it  was 
no  less  admirable  for  the  professions.  What 
is  true  of  the  Marist  Brothers'  school  holds 
equally  of  Summerhill. 

"That  first  college  year  at  Summerhill  was  not 
easy,"  confessed  the  tenor.  We  were  walking 

31 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

again,  McCormack  dripping  with  perspiration 
and  carrying  his  cap  in  his  hand.  "The  next 
year  came  less  hard — and  the  third — when  I  was 
fourteen — found  my  outlook  broader. 

"Bishop  Clancy  was  responsible.  The 
premier  preacher  in  the  entire  Irish  hierarchy, 
he  was  the  most  human  man  imaginable,  with 
sympathies  and  an  understanding  for  his  fellow 
creatures  which  helped  in  making  him  the  force 
he  was.  We  were  gradually  becoming  friends, 
and  his  friendship  was  a  thing  to  cherish.  I 
had  become  interested  in  the  college  life  and  in 
the  whirl  of  intellectual  pursuit.  It  was  disci- 
pline, and  it  kept  one's  head  up  and  let  him  look 
his  neighbor  in  the  eye. 

"I  won't  bore  you  with  the  nature  and  extent 
of  my  studies  except  to  state  that  they  included 
those  subjects  incorporated  in  the  legitimate 
classic  course.  They  were  sufficient,  you  may 
believe,  and  the  lessons  had  to  be  well  learned. 
Early  to  rise  and  early  to  bed — you  remember 
that  phrase?  I  reverse  the  usual  order  of  the 
words,  because  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  for 
ever  getting  up  in  my  sleep.  I  think  an  Irish- 
man thought  of  that  saying  and  that  Summerhill 
tried  to  stretch  its  usefulness. 

32 


COLLEGE  DAYS 

"At  any  rate,  we  took  time  in  that  college  by 
the  forelock  and  were  disinclined  to  let  go.  We 
relaxed,  of  course,  and  had  our  games  and  pleas- 
ures. Football — Association  style — was  popu- 
lar, and  I  well  recall  that  at  one  period  of  my 
college  days  I  was  more  interested  in  making 
the  team  than  in  anything  else.  But  hand- 
ball was  my  forte  and  I  gave  it  many  spare 
hours." 

"You  organized  a  glee  club,  didn't  you?" 

"Never,"  answered  McCormack.  "Such  a 
thing  never  existed  at  Summerhill  during  my 
time.  It  was  a  pity,  too,  because  there  was  more 
than  enough  good  natural  musical  material  to 
be  had.  But  no  consideration  was  given  music, 
nor  is  any  given  throughout  Ireland  to  the  youth 
of  that  country.  I  hope  some  day  to  see  con- 
ditions changed,  because  there  are  so  many  fine 
voices  amongst  the  Irish  and  they  are  so  musical 
that  with  their  opportunities  the  priests  in  Ire- 
land could  do  a  great  musical  good. 

"Had  my  father  and  mother  not  been  musically 
gifted  my  own  progress  would  have  amounted 
to  nothing.  It  was  their  encouragement  and 
their  sensible,  if  non-technical,  instruction,  which 
supplied  my  initial  impulse  in  music.  Father 

33 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

had  a  pure  tenor  voice  and  mother  a  very  pleasing 
soprano. 

"To  sing  was  second  nature  to  me  by  the  time 
I  was  fourteen.  I  sang  eternally — wherever  and 
whenever  I  could — even  during  that  period  when 
my  voice  was  changing.  I  realize  that  this  will 
invite  from  experts  expressions  of  surprise. 
Opinion  has  it  that  such  a  practice  is  dangerous 
to  the  voice,  but  it  never  seemed  to  injure  mine. 
I  would  be  singing,  in  my  boyish  soprano,  when 
the  tone  would  'turn  over'  and  sound  a  masculine 
timbre ;  a  sort  of  'mixed'  tone,  as  it  were.  Then 
the  soprano  quality  would  creep  back  into  the 
voice,  and  remain  until  the  next  moment  of 
physiological  disturbance.  If  I  had  forced,  or 
sung  with  muscular  constriction,  damage  no 
doubt  would  have  been  wrought.  As  events 
proved,  I  bridged  the  critical  part  of  that  period 
of  my  vocal  development;  in  a  few  months  the 
voice  settled  into  the  beginnings  of  the  tenor  it 
now  is. 

"I  wouldn't  describe  that  third  year  at  college 
as  one  in  which  there  was  a  division  of  effort, 
still  the  call  to  sing  was  loud  in  my  ears  and  I 
was  giving  heed.  My  first  paid  engagement, 

34 


i 
I 


COLLEGE  DAYS 

by  the  way,  materialized  about  this  time,  and 
this  was  the  way  of  it. 

"Father  Hynes,  one  of  the  Summerhill  in- 
structors whom  we  boys  adored,  had  arranged 
to  give  two  concerts.  He  had  the  co-operation 
of  citizens  in  the  town  of  Sligo,  and  the  proceeds 
were  to  be  given  to  the  temperance  cause.  I 
first  learned  of  the  project  one  afternoon,  when 
Father  Hynes  stopped  me  on  the  campus  and 
told  me  about  it.  He  finished  by  saying  to  me, 
'How  would  you  like  to  sing  at  those  concerts, 
John?'  I  wasn't  certain,  for  a  moment,  whether 
my  hearing  had  not  played  me  a  trick,  but  I  was 
straightway  reassured.  The  world  thereupon 
assumed  majestic  proportions,  with  John  Mc- 
Cormack  conspicuous  in  their  midst.  I  was  to 
receive,  for  my  services,  the  impressive  sum  of 
four  shillings. 

"I  believe  there  is  a  tale  to  the  effect  that  I 
stole  out  of  my  college  quarters  and  slipped  to 
the  concert,  and  returned  unobserved,  but  that 
is  incorrect.  Father  Hynes  secured  for  me  the 
necessary  permission  to  be  absent  on  the  two 
nights  of  the  concerts,  and  I  departed  from  and 
returned  to  college  quite  conventionally.  My 

35 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

first  appearance,  however,  carried  the  great  ap- 
peal and  found  me  in  a  state  of  suppressed  ex- 
citement. I  went  to  Sligo,  sang  in  the  concert, 
received  from  Father  Hynes  one-half  of  the 
agreed  sum  of  four  shillings  and  returned  to  my 
bed  with  the  heart  of  me  still  singing.  My 
mind,  of  course,  was  filled  with  mingled  con- 
fusions; thoughts  zigzagging  without  arrange- 
ment or  order  or  very  much  definiteness,  with 
but  a  single  exception.  And  that  recurred  again 
and  again  until  it  became  an  obsession. 

"External  evidences  had  all  contributed  to  a 
satisfactory  achievement  on  my  part.  In  the 
hall  I  had  sung  very  sincerely  each  song,  and 
the  recognition  encouraged  me  to  believe  that 
my  honorarium  was  being  earned.  There  were 
demands  for  encores  which  I  was  glad  enough 
to  grant,  and  the  conclusion  found  me  in  a  haze 
of  happiness  which  did  not  lift  until  Maggie,  the 
college  cook,  pushed  through  those  congregated 
about  me  to  add  her  congratulations  to  the  rest. 

"I  saw  her  coming,  her  benignant  face  beam- 
ing and  one  hand  outstretched.  'And  did  you 
like  my  singing,  Maggie,  really?'  'Sure,  Johnny, 
darlin',  but  what  did  you  want  to  show  off  your 
education  for  by  singing  in  them  furrin  lan- 

36 


COLLEGE  DAYS 

guages?'  She  meant  to  be  kind,  dear  old  Mag- 
gie, and  yet  that  question  was  like  a  stab  in  my 
side.  I'd  sung  nothing  save  English;  English 
from  the  start  to  the  close,  which  Maggie  knew 
well.  I  laughed  it  off  and  my  unconscious  critic 
left  me  with  a  pat  on  my  shoulder,  but  her 
query  was  a  disturbing  thorn  in  my  momentary 
triumph.  For  if  she  had  not  understood  my 
words  there  must  have  been  others,  too,  in  the 
audience  similarly  unenlightened  as  to  the  texts. 
"This  fact  I  cogitated  as  I  lay  between  the 
sheets,  and  wrestled  mentally  with  the  possible 
consequences  if  I  proved  unequal  to  conquering 
what  must  be  a  defective  enunciation.  The 
words  of  a  song  are  its  soul  and  must  be  heard 
if  the  poet's  message  is  to  be  comprehended.  I 
had  fancied,  vainly  perhaps,  that  articulation 
was  an  asset  in  my  singing,  for  a  large  part  of 
my  attention  invariably  was  focused  upon  this 
very  element  when  I  sang.  Something,  appar- 
ently, was  amiss.  An  unintelligible  word  or  two 
might  be  condoned,  but  to  have  everything  I  had 
essayed  to  convey  to  my  listeners  fall  upon  Mag- 
gie's ears  as  any  possible  language  foreign  to 
her  learning — that  was  like  a  slap  in  the  face, 
and  far  more  humiliating. 

37 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

"Thus,  from  a  trivial  episode,  was  I  projected 
into  a  sleepless  night.  I  would  doze  off,  half  in 
the  lingering  ecstasy  of  my  debut,  only  to  waken 
with  a  jerk  to  stare  into  the  darkness  with  eyes 
gazing  on  disaster.  Nor  could  I  escape  from  the 
reminders  of  my  fault  when  daybreak  came. 
But  the  lesson  was  worth  learning,  and  I  set  at  it 
— and  still  am.  For  never  again  do  I  wish  such 
an  experience  as  Maggie  gave  me.  It  disturbs 
one's  pride." 

We  walked  for  some  distance  after  that,  Mc- 
Cormack  having  gone  suddenly  into  a  reflective 
mood.  I  forbore  to  interfere.  I  gathered  that 
an  objective  avenue  of  thought  had  been  opened 
to  him  from  the  incident  he  had  told.  But  from 
time  to  time  on  that  last  half  mile  of  our  tramp  I 
stole  a  glance  at  his  face,  though  vainly,  for  it  was 
as  inscrutable  as  a  mask  of  clay. 

Across  the  lawn  to  the  house  we  went,  and  en- 
tered. And  there  in  the  living-room  a  young 
woman,  who  had  been  seated  before  a  desk, 
turned  on  hearing  our  steps  and  rose. 

The  pen  of  a  Richard  Le  Gallienne  would  be 
needed  to  describe  this  charming  lady,  who  is 
known  to  every  McCormack  "fan"  almost  as  well 
as  the  tenor  himself.  But  being  only  a  prosy 

38 


COLLEGE  DAYS 

music  critic  all  I  can  tell  you  is  that  she  is  very 
gracious,  and  lovely,  and  that  one  is  at  once  im- 
pressed by  her  fine  eyes. 

I  was  ne"aring  the  door  which  leads  to  the 
veranda  facing  the  Sound  when  Mrs.  McCormack 
called  to  me.  "Make  yourself  at  home  for  a  few 
minutes;  it's  just  time  for  tea." 

And  in  that  phrase — if  you  analyse  its  inner 
meaning — you  have  Mrs.  McCormack.  Always 
thinking  of  the  comfort  of  others.  Not  her  chil- 
dren only  (of  whom  she  confidentially  assures 
one  that  John  is  the  littlest)  but  of  all  who  cross 
the  thresholds  of  her  homes,  and  many  who 
never  have  been  inside  them. 

She  is  wife  and  mother  and  chum  and  coun- 
sellor, firm  in  her  mildness,  with  a  far-seeing 
worldly  vision  and  an  unselfishness  which  was 
sufficiently  manifested  the  day  she  withdrew  from 
an  already  established  singing  career  to  devote 
her  life  to  John  McCormack's.  And  should 
your  intimacy  with  the  tenor  be  such  as  to  make 
the  question  no  impertinence,  and  you  put  that 
question  to  him,  he  would  tell  you  that  what  he 
has  done  professionally  he  could  not  have  done 
without  the  aid  of  that  selfsame  little  lady  who 
charmed  the  music  public  of  Great  Britain  and 

39 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

Ireland  under  her  maiden  name  of  Lily  Foley. 

She  busied  herself,  after  a  wifely  conference 
with  her  husband,  to  see  that  her  servants  served 
the  tea,  and  as  they  should. 

Afterward,  having  done  my  duty  by  certain 
potato-cakes  which  literally  melted  in  my  mouth, 
I  strolled  off  to  the  tennis  courts,  where  John 
was  industriously  smiting  the  ball  out  of  reach 
of  a  visiting  neighbor  who  played  well — but 
not  well  enough.  And  there,  when  the  set  was 
finished  and  the  vanquished  neighbor  on  his 
homeward  way,  McCormack  finished  for  me  the 
tale  of  his  Summerhill  College  days. 

"That  lesson  in  the  necessity  of  distinct  enun- 
ciation which  Maggie  gave  me  was  one  I  gave 
more  thought  to  than  anything  else  for  the  few 
days  following  my  first  appearance  in  public. 
Articulation  became  the  subject  more  engross- 
ing than  anything  else,  and  it  was  a  matter  of 
days  before  my  equilibrium  was  restored  suffi- 
ciently to  allow  me  to  resume,  in  normal  fashion, 
the  course  of  study  and  recitation. 

"Aloud,  and  silently  to  myself,  I  would  pro- 
nounce the  words  of  a  song — over  and  over  again. 
It  mattered  not  whether  I  was  in  the  classroom  or 
out  of  it;  I  had  an  objective  and  steered  towards 

40 


<       o 


sj* 

w  x 

K     rt 

H  E 
o 
O 
u 

s 


COLLEGE  6AYS 

it  with  tenacity.  My  college  mates,  coming  sud- 
denly upon  me  when  I  plunged  into  this  practice, 
were  at  first  startled.  From  the  looks  some  of 
them  gave  me  there  appeared  a  doubt  as  to  my 
sanity;  until  I  at  length  explained.  Instead  of 
laughing,  as  they  might  have  done,  they  showed 
comforting  sympathy.  Perhaps  their  attitude 
may  be  interpreted  as  an  instance  of  good  wishes, 
for  most  of  my  associates  were  musical  and  not 
unwilling  to  have  me  sing  to  them  whenever  my 
fancy  chose." 

John  might  have  said,  had  he  been  the  sort  to 
do  so,  that  even  as  far  back  as  in  those  times, 
he  was  more  a  hero  to  his  classmates  than  any- 
thing else.  He  sang,  but,  also,  he  played  the 
mouth-organ.  He  played  that  limited  instru- 
ment, Bishop  Curley  informs  me,  upon  slight 
provocation  and  with  unremitting  frequency. 
Apparently,  too,  he  acquired  a  deal  of  technical 
facility  in  various  styles  of  harmonic  accom- 
paniment to  the  tune  of  the  moment.  Runs, 
arpeggios,  staccati  and  long-drawn  and  im- 
pressively held  chords  John  introduced  in  his 
musical  efforts  upon  this  instrument;  and  part 
of  his  four  shillings,  earned  from  the  singing  en- 
gagement aforementioned,  he  put  into  several 

41 


JOHNlVlcCORMACK 

mouth-organs  manufactured  in  different  keys. 
His  collection,  it  appears,  at  one  time,  included 
two  which  bore  on  their  metal  sides  "Key  of  C," 
and  others  similarly  branded  with  G  and  F. 

Leadership  in  directions  other  than  music  was 
another  McCormack  tendency  at  the  fifteenth 
year  of  his  life.  He  was  not  only  a  football  and 
handball  expert,  but  had  developed  proficiency 
as  a  swimmer.  And  on  rare  occasions  the  boys 
revelled  in  their  aquatic  excursions  with  no  less 
distinctive  guest  of  honor  than  their  beloved 
Father  Hynes. 

"We  returned  from  one  of  these  swims,"  said 
John,  "to  find  the  college  president,  Dr.  Kielty, 
in  a  stern  mood.  He  was  a  fine  man,  an  able 
educator  and  a  clear-minded  executive;  but  I 
think  he  held  a  mild  resentment  for  our  fond- 
ness for  Father  Hynes.  We  paused  before  Dr. 
Kielty  when  we  reached  him,  a  dignified  and  im- 
posing figure,  standing  under  a  tree  on  the 
campus.  We  paused,  as  I  have  said,  frankly 
awed  by  his  demeanor  which  portended  some- 
thing apart  from  the  routine  of  the  day.  But  his 
message  threw  us  boys  off  our  youthful  balance, 
and  brought  a  flush  to  the  cheek  of  Father 
Hynes. 

42 


COLLEGE  frAYS 

"In  effect,  he  informed  us  that  on  the  follow- 
ing day  he,  Dr.  Kielty  and  no  other,  would  ac- 
company us  to  the  point  of  departure  from  the 
river  bank  into  the  water;  and  having  thus  re- 
lieved his  mind  he  stalked  off,  a  dignified  per- 
sonality, leaving  us  to  stare  at  one  another  open- 
mouthed. 

"The  good  doctor  went  out  the  following  after- 
noon, to  the  appointed  rendezvous;  went  there 
— and  waited  in  vain.  For  we  boys  rebelled  at 
the  affront  to  Father  Hynes  and  remained  to 
ourselves. 

"So  those  college  days  passed,  with  intermi- 
nable happenings  in  which  the  serious  and  sad 
and  comic  were  intermixed.  And  in  my  fifth 
and  sixth  years  at  college  I  found  myself  coming 
closer  and  closer  to  the  great  Bishop  Clancy, 
whose  counsel  and  encouragement  spurred  me  to 
those  achievements  which  I  contemplate  with 
some  pride. 

"But  I  must  have  borne  scant  resemblance  to 
a  student,  for  I  remember — during  one  vaca- 
tion when  I  was  at  home — being  introduced  to 
a  visiting  neighbour  who  greeted  me,  after  in- 
troductions, with:  'So  this  is  John  Francis,  the 


43 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

Exhibitioner?  I've  heard  he's  clever,  but  he 
doesn't  look  it.'  " 

McCormack  overlooked  one  achievement  to 
his  credit  while  at  Summerhill.  It  might  have 
escaped  the  telling  if  Bishop  Curley,  indefati- 
gable soul,  had  not  confided  the  facts.  "It  was 
final  examinations  week,"  said  the  Bishop,  "and 
John  was  ill  with  a  sty  which  rendered  seeing 
not  only  difficult  but  painful.  The  boys  sym- 
pathized, though  they  needn't  have.  For  that 
week  John  made  a  record.  His  mark  in  Latin, 
in  which  1200  was  the  highest  mark  possible, 
reached  1028;  in  French  he  scored  648  points 
out  of  a  possible  700  and  was  perfect  in  algebra 
with  an  unblemished  score  of  600. 

"He  left  behind  a  record  which  has  never  since 
been  equalled.  And  I  am  glad,  as  he  is,  too,  that 
competing  with  one  hundred  and  sixty  others 
for  one  of  the  twenty  available  places  in  the 
Royal  College  of  Science  he  emerged  number 
twenty-one.  For  had  he  been  victorious  his 
career  would  have  been  other  than  it  has  been, 
and  the  work  he  has  done  still  have  remained  un- 
accomplished." 


44 


CHAPTER  IV 

EARLY   DUBLIN   DAYS 

"At  eighteen  the  determination  to  become  a 
singer  was  a  seed  firmly  implanted  in  my  mind." 
McCormack  made  this  declaration  on  a  cloudy 
morning  on  the  golf  course  of  the  Wee  Burn  Golf 
Club.  "My  college  days  were  done,  the  retire- 
ment from  endeavors  in  the  direction  of  the 
priesthood  accepted  by  my  father,  and  Dublin 
was  beckoning  me  onwards.  Yet  there  were  a 
few  twigs  that  needed  removal  from  my  path.  I 
sensed  the  trend  of  coming  events,  but  even  to 
myself  admission  was  not  quite  complete.  The 
hand  of  Fate  may  have  been — doubtless  was — 
leading  me  towards  the  starting  mark  whence  I 
should  take  up  that  journey.  Every  obstacle  I 
sought  with  full  sincerity  to  remove  in  my  strug- 
gle for  the  coveted  positions,  first  of  priest,  then 
of  Civil  Service  clerkship.  I  like  to  think  that 
I  fought  as  good  a  fight,  and  as  fair  a  one,  as  was 
in  me. 

45 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

"Even  the  story  Bishop  Curley  tells  about  my 
leisurely  stroll  in  Phoenix  Park  that  afternoon 
when  the  Dublin  examination  was  taking  place 
has  its  rejoinder.  In  a  sense  the  Bishop  is  right ; 
he  generally  is.  I  probably  could  have  passed 
the  examination.  But  the  postal  clerkship,  had 
I  secured  it,  would  have  been  mechanically  filled. 
My  alternate,  if  we  may  call  him  such,  no  doubt 
served  the  government  more  efficiently  than  I 
would  have  done." 

McCormack  teed  his  golf  ball,  after  these  re- 
marks, and  sent  it  down  the  fairway  in  a  cleanly 
swung  two-hundred-and-fifty-yard  drive.  The 
effort  seemed  to  rid  him  of  some  seething  element 
in  his  system,  for  he  relaxed  after  the  blow  and 
marking  the  ball  with  his  eyes  turned  again  to 


me. 

M 


I  cannot  truthfully  say  that  I  studied  like  a 
fiend  at  Skerries  Academy,  in  Dublin.  It  was 
a  school  of  specialization,"  he  explained,  "de- 
signed to  prepare  one  for  just  such  examinations 
as  the  Civil  Service  board  prepared.  My  en- 
trance there  came  as  an  aftermath  to  my  failure 
to  be  one  of  the  twenty  who  contested  for  free 
scholarships  in  the  Royal  College  of  Science.  I 
really  wanted  that ;  but  I  finished  number  twenty- 

46 


EARLY  DUBLIN  DAYS 

one — a  single  unit  below  requirements,  which 
shunted  me  into  the  scientific  discard.  That,  if 
you  please  to  believe  it,  was  a  touch  of  Fate's 
hand.  For  had  I  won  a  place  .  .  . 

"I  was  disappointed.  I  dislike  to  lose,  in  any- 
thing. You've  possibly  noticed  that." 

I  had  noticed.  John  is  a  good  sportsman,  and 
a  clean  one ;  but  he  chafes  under  defeat.  I  have 
seen  him  grouch  when  beaten  at  tennis,  and  I 
admire  him  for  it.  Because  it's  a  good  sign  in 
a  man;  a  sign  that  he's  for  ever  trying. 

"Skerries  Academy,  because  of  that  College 
of  Science  failure  of  mine,  became  a  place  of 
momentary  refuge;  and  I  think  my  mind  found 
relief  from  the  accusations  of  that  failure  in  the 
work  which  I  feverishly  sought.  But  instead  of 
studying,  as  had  been  my  custom  up  to  that 
time,  I  evaded  study.  My  parents  had  found  a 
place  for  me  to  live  in  the  home  of  a  worthy 
woman,  who  was  charged  to  see  that  I  went  regu- 
larly to  Skerries  Academy.  So  far  as  the  lady 
knew  I  did  go  there;  at  least,  she  saw  me  leave 
her  house  each  day,  ostensibly  bound  thither, 
and  I  returned  at  a  proper  hour.  It  is  fortunate, 
for  her  peace  of  mind,  that  she  did  not  know  that 
in  those  hours  of  absence  I  was  chiefly  concerned 

47 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

with  anything  which  had  no  direct  connection 
with  Skerries.  Those  first  weeks  at  the  academy 
seemed  bleak  and  dry  and  forlorn.  Singing,  and 
all  thoughts  of  singing,  I  put  from  me  resolutely 
in  that  subconscious  way  one  will  when  there  is 
an  inner  gnawing  of  self-censure.  It  may  have 
been  foolish,  doubtless  it  was,  but  it  acted  as  a 
mental  tonic.  For  I  began,  as  time  passed,  to 
restore  my  equilibrium  and  to  renew  my  inter- 
est in  what  had  lain  dormant  within  me  during 
those  disturbing  weeks. 

"Aroused  from  its  siesta,  my  passion  for  song 
seized  me  more  firmly  than  ever.  One  month 
gave  way  to  another,  and  all  the  while  I  sang 
and  practised  distinct  enunciation  of  the  texts 
of  those  songs  which  I  was  learning  in  a  way  to 
make  them  part  of  me.  There  was  no  relaxation 
in  the  academy  schedule;  rather  an  acceleration 
of  my  musical  nature,  which  was  crystallizing 
fast. 

"My  mind  is  by  no  means  clear  upon  the  facts 
of  that  examination  day  for  the  second  division 
clerkship.  I  waked  in  a  perfectly  normal  mood 
and  proceeded  about  the  morning's  business 
with  no  qualm  as  to  the  outcome  of  the  approach- 
ing competition.  The  day  was  fine,  with  clear 

48 


EARLY  DUBLIN  DAYS 

skies  and  a  beaming  sun.  The  examination  was 
easily  within  my  abilities  to  pass  and  I  knew  it. 
So  there  was  nothing  to  prick  my  concern.  In 
such  a  frame  of  mind  I  turned  to  Nature,  as  was 
so  frequently  my  way,  for  those  delights  she  al- 
ways gave. 

"It  is  quite  probable  that  in  this  relaxed  and 
imaginative  state  the  balance  which  preserves 
that  nice  adjustment  between  one's  practical  and 
aesthetic  sides  swung  too  far  to  one  way.  Un- 
questionably I  drifted  away  from  the  one  and 
very  near  the  other.  At  luncheon  I  was  ab- 
stracted— that  much  I  recall.  Afterward  came 
the  desire  to  walk  abroad  by  myself,  which  I  in- 
dulged. 

"I  concede  the  danger  I  was  in,  but,  frankly,  I 
did  not  sense  it.  There  was  ample  time  for  a 
walk,  and  Phoenix  Park  lay  at  no  considerable 
distance.  As  I  had  often  done  before,  I  gravi- 
tated in  that  direction  by  force  of  habit. 

"Once  within  its  verdant  boundaries,  one 
forgot  the  rest  of  the  world.  There  was  peaceful 
quiet;  a  solitude  that  soothed  and  encouraged. 
Tree-branches  seemed  to  nod  at  me,  and  the  wind- 
blown grass  and  the  flowers  bent  in  my  direction 
as  if  conscious  of  how  I  felt.  The  hum  of  Dub- 

49 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

lin  was  far  removed:  no  hurry  of  pedestrians 
dodging  the  grind  of  traffic,  nor  newsboys'  cries 
of  their  wares  nor  other  sounds  of  worldly  strife 
of  the  day.  Only  a  tranquillity  of  which  I  con- 
tinued to  drink.  No  one  was  near;  I  began  to 
sing.  .  .  ." 

"Then  you  really  forgot?" 

We  had  been  walking,  all  this  time,  in  the 
direction  of  that  excellent  drive  of  his.  Mc- 
Cormack  stopped  before  the  little  sphere  of  white 
and  dropped  the  head  of  his  brassie  alongside  an 
inviting  lie.  He  looked  up  at  the  question — but 
past  me,  into  the  distance.  The  barest  inclina- 
tion of  his  head  was  his  sole  assent. 

So  I  respected  his  mood  by  moving  leisurely 
off,  and  to  one  side,  as  if  to  allow  him  full  play 
in  the  next  stroke.  He  was  almost  staring  at  me 
as  I  turned  round;  and  I  fancied  his  eyes  held 
an  appreciative  look,  a  mute  endorsement  of  my 
act  which  left  him  free  of  any  explanation  he  did 
not  care  to  voice. 

A  week  or  so  later,  however,  and  with  startling 
unexpectedness,  John  mentioned  the  Phoenix 
Park  incident  again.  Very  briefly,  'tis  true,  but 
in  words.  "I  became  absorbed,  that  afternoon, 

50 


EARLY  DUBLIN  DAYS 

and  forgot."     That  was  an  end  to  it,  and  I  never 
referred  to  the  occurrence  thereafter. 

"Do  you  believe  in  suggestions?" 

"What  sort?"  I  countered. 

"Other  people's?" 

"For  instance?" 

"Well,"  he  replied,  then,  after  a  long  pause — 
"being  told  that  you  should  do  so-and-so;  that 
the  world  offers  a  chance  in  some  particular  di- 
rection, in  the  performance  of  a  particular  ca- 
pacity for  which  you  seem  to  have  a  special  apti- 
tude. 

"Without  a  doubt.  Nearly  every  one  is  in- 
fluenced by  what  the  world  says  and  thinks. 
And  no  man,  or  woman,  is  free  from  being  af- 
fected— positively  or  the  reverse — by  what 
friends  suggest." 

"Same  here,"  agreed  John;  "it  was  that  way 
in  1903,  in  Dublin.  After  the  Dublin  postal 
clerkship  fiasco — if  we  may  term  it  that — I  took 
singing  by  the  hand  and  gave  it  a  sound  shake. 
It  was  as  if  we  were  pals  joining  forces  with  a 
resolution  never  to  part.  The  whole  circum- 
stance had  come  about  so  naturally  that  I  felt 
no  blame.  Perhaps  it  was  the  feeling  that  it 
was  all  for  the  best,  as  it  has  since  proved. 

51 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

"It  was  about  that  time  that  my  friends,  one 
after  the  other,  began  proffering  advice.  They 
all  agreed.  I  was  destined  to  have  a  singing 
career  and  was  a  fool  not  to  see  it.  There  was 
power  in  these  suggestions,  a  world  of  it;  and  I 
was  not  insensible  to  entertaining  a  fondness  for 
hearing  what  they  said.  I  was  heeding,  too, 
more  willingly  than  I  knew;  for  directly  I  let 
myself  fall  into  the  ways  of  their  thinking  and 
before  winter  passed  music  had  me  for  a  life 
votary. 

"One  man  drove  the  last  spike  in  my  rail  of 
decision — Vincent  O'Brien.  I  said  earlier  in 
our  talks — if  you  remember — that  I  felt  deeply 
obligated  to  a  very  few.  Well,  one  of  those 
few  is  Vincent  O'Brien.  He  was  organist  of 
Marlborough  Street  Cathedral,  in  Dublin;  a 
splendid  musician,  a  fine  man,  and  a  staunch 
friend.  He  had  vision  and  appeared,  intuitively, 
to  feel  that  all  I  needed  was  study  and  oppor- 
tunity to  achieve  a  goal  worthy  of  serious  aspira- 
tions. It  was  good  to  feel,  as  I  often  did,  that 
he  was  right;  yet  I  dared  not  allow  myself  to 
share  the  hopes,  in  so  positive  a  manner,  which 
O'Brien  consistently  held.  He  never  wavered, 
and  his  convictions  buoyed  and  steadied  me 

52 


EARLY  DUBLIN  DAYS 

mightily  in  my  doubting  moments.  I  was  the 
tenor  in  O'Brien's  choir,  at  one  hundred  and 
twenty-five  dollars  a  year,  and  it  was  this  that 
caused  me  to  ask  myself  occasionally  if  my  organ- 
ist-friend was  not  over-prejudiced. 

"The  manner  of  how  it  all  came  about  is,  I 
conclude,  in  order.  Dr.  Dudley  Forde  did  me 
the  service  of  introducing  me  to  Vincent 
O'Brien,  and  many's  the  time  I've  breathed 
for  him  my  everlasting  gratitude.  The  doctor 
was  house  surgeon  in  the  Mater  Misericordiae 
Hospital,  of  Dublin ;  a  lover  of  singing  and  con- 
sidered a  judge  of  it.  That  I  had  attracted  his 
favorable  notice  was  a  comfort  to  me,  though  it 
was  some  time  afterward  that  I  was  to  discover 
how  much  that  was  to  mean. 

"Shortly  before  Dr.  Forde  introduced  me  to 
Vincent  O'Brien  I  had  had  a  talk  with  a  young 
Athlone  attorney  named  John  Walsh,  whose 
attainments  and  personal  charm  made  him,  at 
twenty-seven,  one  of  the  most  influential  and  best 
loved  men  in  the  city.  He  was  forever  doing 
something  for  others;  an  altruist,  if  ever  there 
was  one.  It  was  in  December,  1902,  soon  after 
my  unintentional  deviation  from  the  Civil  Serv- 
ice examination,  that  Walsh  said  to  me:  'Mac, 

53 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

why  don't  you  run  up  to  Dublin  to  see  Charles 
Manners,  of  the  Moody-Manners  Opera  Com- 
pany? Your  voice  ought  to  fit  there  like  a 
glove.' 

"I  explained  my  inability,  through  lack  of 
funds,  and  like  a  shot  he  retorted,  'That's  easily 
fixed.'  He  slipped  into  my  hand  the  money  for 
the  journey,  gave  me  a  push  and  a  slap  on  the 
back.  His  words,  'Good  luck,  Mac,'  were  the 
last  I  ever  heard  him  say.  For,  before  I  re- 
turned, he  was  taken  ill  with  typhoid  fever  and 
died  shortly  after  I  reached  Athlone,  being  in 
extremis  when  I  reached  home.  It  wrung  my 
heart  when  I  learned  that,  in  his  last  hours,  he 
kept  asking  for  me.  'Is  Mac  back,  yet?'  he 
would  repeatedly  inquire.  'How  did  he  come 
out?'  Poor  boy;  perhaps  he  knows,  now,  what 
his  friendship  did  for  me.  I  carried  with  me, 
and  do  to  this  day,  the  influence  of  his  staunch 
faith  and  comradeship. 

"The  interview  with  Charles  Manners  led  to 
nothing.  He  was  a  precise  man,  on  the  lookout 
for  a  bargain  which  he  concluded  lay  neither  in 
my  throat  nor  in  my  soul.  I  sang  to  him,  then 
walked  into  the  front  of  the  house  for  his  verdict. 
He  sat  curled  up  in  one  of  the  chairs  in  the  the- 

54 


EARLY  DUBLIN  DAYS 

atre,  his  face  pushed  into  the  fingers  of  his  right 
hand.  But  his  interest  was  mild.  The  best  he 
could  offer  me,  he  said,  was  a  place  in  the  chorus. 

"Although  I  had  not  imagined  that  a  contract 
would  result  from  my  Moody-Manners  expedi- 
tion, the  rebuff  discouraged  me.  The  position 
he  offered  was  of  course  the  cause.  And  then, 
it  was  the  first  occasion  of  such  indifferent 
treatment.  I  spent  the  time  during  the  railway 
ride  back  to  Athlone  debating  inwardly  the  ex- 
tent of  my  capacities,  and  speculating  upon  the 
exact  value  of  my  friends'  encouragements. 
But  that  faith  which  I  had  in  myself — a  faith  I 
honestly  feel  to  have  been  something  remote 
from  conceit — never  ceased  its  silent  endeavors 
to  buoy  me.  I  am  not  a  fighter,  in  the  physical 
sense.  It  is  only  when  there  is  a  mental  en- 
counter that  I  seem  not  to  waver  or  lack  the  forti- 
tude to  meet  an  issue.  Descending  from  the 
railway  carriage  at  Athlone  station  I  found  this 
to  be  my  mood.  And  I  hurried  to  Walsh's 
home,  where  they  told  me  the  sad  news." 

The  tenor  reached  for  a  handkerchief  to  wipe 
the  moisture  from  his  face,  and  I  wondered,  see- 
ing the  bit  of  linen  across  mouth  and  nose  and 
eyes,  if  it  were  due  to  the  heat — and  nothing  else. 

55 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

"Let's  see,"  said  McCormack,  with  assumed 
gruffness,  "I'm  playing  four  here,  am  I  not?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  watch  me  hole  out."  He  was  twenty 
feet  from  the  cup,  but  the  ball  rolled  true  as  a 
die  to  its  mark.  His  partner,  from  his  place  at 
the  edge  of  the  green,  exclaimed  in  disgust: 
"For  sheer  luck — " 

" — And  putting  skill,"  reminded  McCormack, 
as  imperturbable  as  if  such  a  feat  were  a  common 
occurrence. 

" — you  Irish  beat  us  southerners." 

John  admitted  the  superiority  and  demanded 
solemnly  of  me,  as  scorekeeper,  how  many  up  he 
was.  After  that  incident  he  played  the  next  two 
holes  in  silence;  nor  did  he  complain  when,  at- 
tempting an  awkward  recovery  from  a  lie  against 
the  outcropping  root  of  a  tree,  he  split  the  club, 
— his  pet  spoon, — with  a  stroke  that  sent  it  spin- 
ning yards  away.  He  didn't  thaw  into  a  talka- 
tive mood  again  until  we  had  finished  our  lemon- 
ades— John  drank  his  without  sugar — and  had 
left  the  club-house  for  the  tenor's  waiting  road- 
ster. With  the  whirr  of  the  motor,  spun  into  life 
by  the  self-starter,  he  spoke. 

"Dr.  Forde  took  me  to  Vincent  O'Brien  soon 
56 


EARLY  DUBLIN  DAY 

after  that  cheerful  trip  to  see  Charlie  Manners," 
announced  John.  "O'Brien  needed  a  tenor, 
and  the  doctor  had  suggested  that  he  hear  me. 
The  experience  was  a  horse  of  another  color. 
O'Brien  was  as  positive  as  Manners  was  nega- 
tive; so  much  so  that  he  volunteered  to  have 
Edward  Martin  listen  to  my  voice.  Martin,  an 
Irish  playwright  of  means  whose  fad  was  music, 
had  endowed  the  Marlborough  Street  Cathedral 
choir,  and  out  of  courtesy  O'Brien  wished  to  con- 
sult him  before  engaging  so  important  a  member 
for  the  organization  (which  it  then  needed)  as 
a  tenor. 

"Martin  came  over  to  the  cathedral,  and  I 
sang  to  him,  in  the  choir  room.  It  was  a  good- 
sized  place,  but  my  voice — though  smaller  than 
it  is  now — was  telling  in  quality.  I  watched  my 
critic  while  I  sang  for  some  sign  of  approval; 
but  Martin  allowed  me  nothing,  from  any  out- 
ward evidence,  on  which  to  base  a  hope.  And 
when  I  had  finished  what  do  you  suppose  he 
said?" 

I  said  I  had  no  idea. 

"He  said,"  replied  McCormack,  with  a  laugh, 
"that  my  voice,  he  feared,  was  too  large  for  the 
choir." 

57 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

That  did  seem  odd.  "Then  he  turned  you 
down?" 

"No;  O'Brien  explained  that  in  the  audito- 
rium of  the  cathedral  the  voice  would  not 
give  such  an  impression.  This  appeared  to 
satisfy  Martin,  and  he  told  the  organist  to  go 
ahead,  if  he  liked,  and  engage  me.  I  walked  out 
of  the  cathedral  a  happy  young  man.  I  had  a 
choir  position,  a  salary  of  one  hundred  and 
twenty  five  dollars  a  year,  and  the  music  road 
showed  clear  ahead.' 


CHAPTER  V 

FIRST    MUSIC    STUDIES 

He  was  swimming,  just  beyond  the  end  of  the 
McCormack  pier,  with  a  double  over-arm  stroke ; 
a  smallish  figure,  like  a  boy's,  from  the  spot 
where  I  stood  watching.  He  turned,  presently, 
to  retrace  his  course,  and  as  he  swam  nearer  I 
saw  he  was  a  boy.  He  came  on,  using  a  narrow 
kick  to  his  legs  that  drove  him  at  a  considerable 
speed  through  the  choppy  brine.  At  the  ladder 
he  stopped,  trod  water  for  a  moment,  and  then 
ascended  leisurely  to  where  I  stood. 

"Good  morning,  Cyril;  how's  the  tempera- 
ture?" 

"F-ff-i-i-ne!"  announced  the  scion  of  the 
McCormack  household,  at  the  same  time  kicking 
alternately  with  right  and  left  legs  to  dislodge 
the  remaining  drops  of  water  from  his  ears. 
"Go  ahead,"  he  suggested,  "and  get  into  your 
bathing-suit;  the  water's  great." 

He  appeared  to  me,  as  he  stood  there  with  a 
smile  on  his.  face,  a  likely-looking  boy.  Eleven 

59 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

and  very  self-contained.  And  with  no  trace  of 
affectation,  such  as  might  be  expected  in  a  youth 
whose  father's  celebrity  had  been  thoroughly 
dinned  into  his  impressionable  mind.  A  clean- 
limbed youngster,  too,  rather  deep  of  chest  and 
with  a  pair  of  shoulders  that  will  some  day  rival 
his  father's.  I  was  not  sorry,  as  I  stood  there 
looking  into  his  eyes,  which  returned  my  gaze 
with  easy  frankness,  that  Cyril  has  a  well-bal- 
anced little  brain.  For  he's  more  than  ordi- 
narily good-looking. 

John  arrived  at  this  juncture,  in  a  particularly 
jubilant  mood. 

"Come  on,  Pop;  come  on  in,"  said  McCor- 
mack  junior,  who  leaped  then  to  the  rail  of  the 
pier,  poised  there  impudently  and  dove.  He 
cut  the  water  as  a  knife  cuts  butter,  and  went 
from  our  sight,  leaving  behind  him  on  the  sur- 
face only  the  tiniest  splash. 

"The  little  dare-devil,"  commented  John 
(with  some  pride,  too).  "What  did  he  think, 
that  I'd  follow  with  my  clothes  on?"  But  he 
obeyed  Cyril's  demand  by  starting  for  the  house 
for  apparel  suitable  for  the  swim  he  takes  each 
morning.  "Come  on  yourself,"  he  said  to  me, 
"and  don't  take  all  day." 

60 


FIRST  MUSIC  STUDIES 

We  passed  Mrs.  McCormack,  Gwenny,  and 
Miss  Josephine  B.  Foley  (Mrs.  McCormack' s 
charming  sister)  on  their  way  to  the  beach. 
They  were  clad  for  bathing,  too,  and  added  their 
suggestions  to  Cyril's  that  we  lose  no  time  to 
join  them  in  a  forenoon  dip.  A  quarter  of  an 
hour  later  found  us  in  the  Sound,  an  amphibious 
sextette,  and  making  a  great  to-do  about  the 
matter. 

When  we  had  finished  and  dressed  again  and 
were  seated  on  the  veranda,  McCormack  resumed 
his  narrative. 

"I  feel  almost  as  happy,  this  morning,  as  the 
day  I  got  that  Marlborough  Street  Cathedral 
job,"  confided  the  tenor;  and  he  looked  it. 

"The  good  fortune  interfered  with  that  night's 
sleep,"  he  went  on,  "but  I  got  up  unfatigued; 
excitement  has  its  virtues.  I  met  O'Brien  and 
went  with  him  into  executive  session.  He 
wanted  to  know  if  I  read  music.  I  admitted 
that  I  could  not.  'All  right,'  he  replied,  'come 
on  up  to  the  house,  and  we'll  see  how  well  you 
can  do  in  a  first  trial.' 

"He  propped  a  piece  of  music  on  the  piano 
rack  and  we  began.  I  estimated  the  distance  be- 
tween notes,  and  as  my  musical  instinct  was 

61 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

strong  I  did  fairly  well.  'Hm,'  mused  Vincent, 
'some  lessons  wouldn't  hurt  you  any.'  He  gave 
me  one  then — and  I  continued  with  him  in  learn- 
ing the  tonic  sol-fa  system.  Up  to  that  moment 
my  father  and  mother,  as  I  mentioned  once  be- 
fore, had  been  my  sole  instructors,  and  their 
musical  knowledge,  as  you  may  have  guessed,  was 
not  extensive.  So  this  advantage  which  O'Brien 
laid  before  me  was  invaluable ;  it  meant  the  start 
of  a  foundation  I  have  since  tried  to  make  secure. 
"Within  a  few  weeks  I  again  met  Dr.  Forde. 
'How  goes  it  at  the  Cathedral?'  inquired  the  good 
doctor.  Then,  before  I  could  answer,  he  said: 
'That  reminds  me,  why  don't  you  enter  in  the 
Feis  Coeil?'  This,  as  you  are  doubtless  aware, 
is  an  Irish  musical  festival  in  which  competitive 
singing  between  individual  types  of  voices — 
sopranos,  tenors  and  so  forth — forms  the  princi- 
pal interest.  The  winner  in  each  division  re- 
ceives a  gold  medal  and  considerable  prestige. 
I  knew  that  the  list  of  entrants  had  been  com- 
pleted and  so  informed  the  doctor. 

'That  is  true,'  he  admitted,  'but  an  entry 
can  be  made,  even  after  the  closing  date ;  it  merely 
requires  a  fee  of  ten  shillings.'  Ten  shillings! 
It  might  as  well  have  been  a  hundred.  Dr. 

62 


FIRST  MUSIC  STUDIES 

Forde  saw  my  look,  and  interpreting  it  aright 
asked  if  I  hadn't  the  necessary  money.  I  nodded 
my  head.  'Don't  worry,'  he  said  comfortingly, 
'you  enter  and  I  will  supply  the  ten  shillings.' 

"Of  course  I  went  at  once  to  Vincent  O'Brien. 
'There'll  be  two  compositions  every  tenor  will  be 
obliged  to  sing,'  was  the  information  he  gave. 
They  were  Handel's  'Tell  Fair  Irene,'  an  aria,  by 
the  way,  which  I  but  recently  felt  I  sang  well 
enough  to  put  on  my  concert  programmes,  and 
'The  Snowy  Breasted  Pearl.'  There  wasn't 
much  time  for  their  preparation.  O'Brien  inti- 
mated as  much  and  directed  me  to  get  the  music 
and  bring  it  to  him.  Til  teach  you,'  he  said. 
'But — I  have  no  money  with  which  to  pay  you.' 
'Who  asked  you  to  pay  me?'  he  gruffly  demanded. 
'I  said  I  would  teach  you ;  wait  till  I  ask  you  for 
money  before  you  talk  about  it.'  I  felt  rather 
meek  at  that,  but  too  grateful  to  venture  any  ex- 
pression. I  hurried  to  a  music  store,  got  the 
songs  and  Vincent  began  to  coach  me. 

"He  is  one  of  the  finest  accompanists  alive: 
a  thorough  musician,  with  rare  feeling  for  a  com- 
position, a  subtle  understanding  of  the  singer's 
intentions  and  superlative  skill  in  giving  one  the 
musical  and  moral  support  in  the  interpretation. 

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JOHN  McCORMACK 

Edwin  Schneider,  my  present  accompanist,  is 
such  another. 

"O'Brien  was  very  patient  in  the  coaching; 
and  just  as  thorough.  Over  and  over  again  he 
would  drill  me  in  a  phrase  until  I  was  able  to 
approach  somewhat  nearly  to  what  he  sought. 
I  will  not  say  that  he  was  satisfied ;  but  when  the 
task  was  done  he  said  to  me :  'Sing  those  songs 
as  well  at  the  Feis  as  you  just  sang  them  and 
you  will  win.'  I  felt  my  breath  catch  at  his 
prediction — I  really  did  not  believe  I  had  more 
than  an  outsider's  chance." 

Mrs.  McCormack,  Miss  Foley  and  the  two  chil- 
dren interrupted  the  story  at  this  point  by  com- 
manding us  to  luncheon.  And  during  that,  and 
other  meals  served  in  the  McCormack  household, 
I  marvelled  at  the  tenor's  rigidity  at  denying 
himself  those  things  of  which  he  is  fond — pastries 
and  such,  which  he  contends  he  is  better  off,  as 
a  singer,  without.  The  duty  of  eating  concluded, 
John  strolled  out  upon  the  veranda.  He  lighted 
a  cigarette  and,  comfortably  ensconced  in  his 
favorite  chair,  he  resumed : 

"The  hall  was  packed  that  first  Feis  after- 
noon," he  said, — "several  thousand  people, 
many  of  whom  had  come  miles  to  Dublin  for  that 

64 


FIRST  MUSIC  STUDIES 

occasion.  And  every  tenor  and  baritone  and 
soprano  and  contralto  had  'rooters';  but  silent 
rooters,  for  applause  was  forbidden.  I  made  my 
way  to  a  spot  in  a  corner  of  the  hall,  not  far  from 
the  stage.  In  half  an  hour  the  judges  called  the 
first  of  the  fourteen  tenors  who  were  competing, 
and  the  content  was  on. 

"Eight  of  these  tenors  sang,  and  none  of  them 
disturbed  materially  my  peace  of  mind.  Three 
of  the  remaining  five,  however,  did,  one  espe- 
cially. This  chap  was  William  Rathborne,  a 
matured  singer  and  very  evidently,  by  the  actions 
of  the  audience,  the  favorite.  He  sang  both 
songs  very  well,  I  thought;  yet  some  of  his 
phrases  would  not  have  got  by  Vincent  O'Brien 
if  O'Brien  had  been  coaching  him.  Rathborne 
finished  and  stepped  down  from  the  platform. 
As  he  passed  down  the  aisle  toward  the  dressing- 
room,  which  brought  him  near  me,  I  saw  him  take 
his  left  hand  in  his  right  and  press  it  with  con- 
gratulatory fervor.  It  may  appear  to  have  been 
a  presumptuous  act;  I  thought  it  such,  and  was 
inclined  to  smile.  Also,  that  act  of  Rathborne's 
of  shaking  hands  with  himself  on  his  assumed  vic- 
tory struck  me  as  a  trifle  previous.  It  made 
something  inside  me  rebel,  and  straightway  there 

65 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

was  born  a  resolve  to  teach  him  a  lesson — if  I 
could." 

"Put  you  in  a  properly  scrappy  mood,  was  that 
it?" 

"I  daresay.  At  any  rate,  all  the  undesirable 
part  of  my  long-continued  nervousness  promptly 
vanished.  And  I  walked,  as  my  name  was 
called,  to  the  platform  and  over  to  the  piano 
where  Hamilton  Harty  sat  waiting.  Harty,  now 
a  distinguished  composer,  was  the  official  accom- 
panist for  the  Feis.  But  when  my  turn  came  he 
was  tired.  There  is  a  point,  however,  which  de- 
mands relating  before  I  tell  about  how  I  sang. 

"As  Rathborne  passed  me  I  heard  a  familiar 
voice,  just  back  of  me,  say :  'W-w-w-willie,  you 
r-a-an  away  with  it.'  I  recognized  the  speaker 
to  be  J.  C.  Doyle,  Dublin's  popular  baritone,  who 
stuttered.  He  had  heard  me  sing,  and  when  I 
caught  what  he  said  I  quailed.  If  that  were 
Doyle's  belief  my  chances,  probably,  were  small. 
Then  the  baritone  spoke  again,  and  turning  my 
head  our  gazes  met.  'What,  you  here,  Mac? 
Gad,  W-w-willie,  wait  a  minute,  n-o-ot  yet. 
There's  a  dark  horse  who's  likely  to  spoil  your 
afternoon.' 

"So  you  may  imagine  I  walked  over  to  Harty 
66 


FIRST  MUSIC  STUDIES 

with  some  feeling  of  confidence.  Well,  we  fi- 
nally began.  But  Harty,  as  I  intimated,  was 
physically  worn  out.  He  wanted  to  get  through, 
and  quickly;  and  he  played  the  introductory 
measures  of  'Tell  Fair  Irene'  as  though  he  had  a 
train  to  make.  It  was  a  tempo  twice  as  fast  as 
O'Brien  had  taught  me  was  the  correct  one;  a 
tempo,  likewise,  too  rapid  to  permit  of  good  sing- 
ing, to  say  nothing  of  interpreting  Handel's  music 
as  he  intended. 

"There  was  only  one  thing  to  do  and  I  did  it. 
I  turned  around  and  informed  Harty  I  had 
learned  the  aria  in  a  way  different  from  the  way  he 
was  playing  it.  'Please  take  it  just  half  as  fast,' 
I  requested.  Instead  of  objecting  he  only 
smiled.  He  probably  thought :  'The  poor  boy, 
well,  let  him  have  his  way.'  But  I  hadn't  gone 
far  before  Harty  settled  down  and  played  for  me 
one  of  the  finest  accompaniments  I  have  ever 
sung  to.  He  was  a  sportsman  to  the  tips  of  his 
talented  fingers,  and  he  gave  me  all  there  was 
musically  in  him. 

"With  my  last  note  there  came  from  the 
audience  a  volley  of  applause ;  one  of  those  spon- 
taneous demonstrations  which  one  gets  intuitively 
to  reflect  the  feelings  of  an  audience.  Perhaps 

67 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

it  was  the  pure  quality  of  my  voice,  or  my  youth, 
or  both  that  prompted  it.  They  forgot  for  the 
moment  that  they  were  breaking  a  rule  of  long 
standing.  At  any  rate,  the  applause  went  on 
for  some  moments — nor  did  the  judges  interfere. 

"You  may  believe  that  the  incident  heartened 
me;  no  doubt  it  had  its  effect  upon  the  jury, 
which  was  one  of  the  reasons  for  forbidding  that 
very  thing.  I  began,  then,  'My  Snowy  Breasted 
Pearl,'  which  I  may  have  sung  better  than  'Tell 
Fair  Irene.' 

"And  the  verdict?"  I  queried. 

"The  verdict,"   responded   the   tenor,    "was 


mine." 


He  rose,  then,  and  went  to  meet  Bob,  his 
gardener,  who  was  busy  on  another  part  of  his 
estate  cutting  hay.  I  did  not  see  McCormack 
for  several  hours.  He  came  across  to  the  tennis 
courts,  where  I  sat  watching  two  amateur  cracks 
at  play,  with  the  collar  of  his  outing  shirt  open 
and  evidences  of  having  participated  in  manual 
labor. 

'Tis  an  easier  game,  tennis,"  he  declared, 
"than  pitching  hay.  But  my  muscles  still  cry 
out  for  exercise,  so  I'll  take  on  both  of  you."  He 
did,  and  beat  them. 

68 


FIRST  MUSIC  STUDIES 

It  was  while  we  were  running  along  the  Con- 
necticut shore  of  Long  Island  Sound,  in  McCor- 
mack's  motor-driven  fishing  dory,  that  he  pro- 
ceeded with  the  story  of  his  life.  The  sun  was 
low  in  the  west,  the  sky  forbidding  with  a  vault 
of  low-lying  clouds.  It  looked  stormy  and  John 
put  about  and  headed  for  Rocklea. 

"The  gold  medal  I  was  awarded  as  winner  of 
the  tenor  contest  at  the  Feis  decided  my  future. 
I  determined  to  abandon  all  efforts  at  anything 
else;  so  May  14,  1903,  may  stand  as  the  pivotal 
date  in  my  career.  As  the  competition  was  an 
open  one  to  all  residents  of  the  British  Isles  some 
reputation  attached  to  the  winner  in  each  divi- 
sion. I  profited;  and  another  profited,  a  young 
soprano,  Miss  Lily  Foley,  whom  I  had  never  met. 
Miss  Foley  had  surpassed  her  rivals  with  aston- 
ishing ease :  her  lyric  voice  (one  of  the  smoothest 
I've  ever  heard)  and  breadth  of  style  and  finish 
were  used  in  a  way  to  let  none  who  heard  forget. 
As  I  listened  to  her,  at  the  Feis,  I  thought  to  my- 
self, Td  like  to  sing  with  her.'  And  in  the  fall 
of  that  same  year  I  had  my  wish. 

"Up  to  then,"  explained  the  tenor,  "I  had 
never  heard  an  opera.  Though  I  was  nineteen 
my  understanding  of  this  form  of  musical  art  was 

69 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

nil;  I  hadn't  so  much  as  a  bowing  acquaintance 
with  anything  or  anyone  operatic,  much  as  I 
yearned  for  both.  It  was  in  that  year,  1903, 
that  I  listened  to  and  saw  my  first  opera; 
it  was  a  performance  of  'Cavalleria  Rusticana' 
and  'I  Pagliacci,'  those  two  works  which  usually 
are  presented  in  what  is  known  as  a  double-bill. 
The  Moody-Manners  Company  gave  the  per- 
formance, in  Dublin.  'Cavalleria'  was  the 
first  offering,  and  my  attention  centered  quite 
naturally  on  the  tenor.  He  was  an  American, 
Francis  Maclennan,  and  he  had  a  clear,  ringing 
voice,  a  convincing  style  and  has  acquired  just 
fame  as  a  fine  Wagnerian  exponent.  I  could 
scarcely  sit  still  in  my  excitement  and  when  the 
curtain  dropped  on  the  opera  I  was  trembling. 

"I  sat  through  the  intermission  living  over 
again  the  performance  of  Mascagni's  opera  and 
only  emerged  from  my  ecstatic  daze  when  the 
overture  to  Tagliacci'  began  and  the  baritone 
came  out  to  sing  the  prologue.  Philip  Brozel 
was  the  Canio  in  this  opera,  and  I  consider  him 
one  of  the  best  I  have  ever  heard  in  the  role.  I 
left  the  theatre  in  some  mental  confusion,  for, 
though  impressed,  I  was  by  no  means  convinced 

70 


FIRST  MUSIC  STUDIES 

that  opera  represented  the  highest  form  of  either 
art  or  singing.  Since  then  I  have  come  to  know 
that  opera  really  is  a  hybrid — being  neither  one 
thing  or  the  other,  but  a  mixture  of  elements 
which  tend  to  restrict  its  freest  utterances  in 
music,  text,  acting  and  pictorial  illusion.  And 
nowhere  is  the  singer  so  handicapped  as  in  opera, 
as  I  shall  show  later  on.  Nevertheless,  on  that 
evening,  I  envied  the  two  tenors,  Maclennan  and 
Brozel,  and  fell  to  wondering  if  I  should  ever  find 
myself  doing  what  they  were  doing  so  well. 

"After  a  summer's  vacation,  spent  with  my 
parents  in  Athlone,  I  set  about  finding  work  for 
my  voice  and  such  art  as  I  commanded.  En- 
gagements came,  and  not  so  many,  either,  at  in- 
significant sums:  ten,  fifteen,  twenty  shillings 
each.  But  my  musical  equipment  grew.  I 
found  in  Vincent  O'Brien  an  efficient  instructor, 
and  the  music  we  performed  in  the  cathedral  was 
an  education  in  itself.  Palestrina  compositions 
were  freely  used ;  others  by  illustrious  composers, 
also,  so  that  much  of  the  best  to  be  had  became 
necessary  for  me  to  learn,  under  careful  guid- 
ance. So  my  abilities  steadily  grew.  And  as 
I  obtained  concert  appearances,  in  other  cities 

71 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

and  towns  besides  Dublin,  I  acquired  by  degrees 
further  security  and  was  enabled  to  provide  in- 
creasing satisfaction  to  my  hearers. 

"But  my  income  was  small,  and  the  stretching 
of  financial  ends  to  make  them  meet  something 
of  a  job.  Still,  I  persisted.  My  faith  endured. 
And  one  day  I  was  summoned  to  appear  in  a 
concert  which  William  Ludwig — one  of  the  most 
distinguished  baritones  Ireland  has  produced — 
was  preparing  to  give. 

"I  was  recovering  from  a  cold  the  morning  I 
went  to  rehearsal  and  was  coughing.  Ludwig, 
as  bluff  in  his  manner  as  his  heart  was  big,  did 
not  approve  of  the  cough.  My  boyish  appear- 
ance doubtless  stirred  in  him  a  fatherly  concern, 
for  he  gazed  in  assumed  sternness  at  me  and  said : 
'John,  I  don't  like  that  cough.  You  need  some- 
body to  take  care  of  you,  and  here's  the  girl  to  do 
it.  Let  me  introduce  you  to  Miss  Lily  Foley.' 

"That  was  the  way  of  it;  the  precise  manner 
my  wife  and  I  met.  I  was  a  bit  bashful  in  those 
days  and  must  have  blushed.  Lily's  cheeks,  too, 
showed  a  hint  at  more  than  the  color  I  had  be- 
held— for  I'll  admit  I  had  seen  her  some  mo- 
ments before  being  introduced,  and  had  utilized 
each  moment.  She  had  a  reputation,  you  must 

72 


FIRST  MUSIC  STUDIES 

know,  as  something  more  than  a  soprano  singer. 
I'll  not  equivocate:  she  was  called  a  beauty." 

"So  you  decided,  then  and  there,  to  make  her 
Mrs.  McCormack?" 

"Wait,  man!  Not  so  fast.  There  were 
others  who  had  plans  to  marry  the  lady,  as  I'd 
been  told.  No,  indeed.  I  made  no  such  de- 
cision as  that.  I  was  more  concerned  over  dis- 
posing of  my  hands,  which  seemed  suddenly  to 
have  grown  and  gotten  discomfortingly  in  my 
way." 

"But  you—" 

"It  was  to  be  an  important  concert,"  said  Mc- 
Cormack, conclusively,  and  he  lighted  another 
cigarette. 

" — admired  her?" 

"I  did,"  he  admitted,  having  been  brought  to 
a  reply.  "I  did  and  do  and  shall  so  continue. 
But  let  me  proceed.  There  was  a  notable  Dub- 
lin audience  for  that  concert ;  many  people  from 
other  places  who  anticipated  an  event.  Miss 
Foley  sang,  in  that  glorious  lyric  soprano  of  hers, 
and  I  listened  and  was  glad.  Others  appeared 
glad,  also,  if  their  applause  may  count  as  the 
measure  of  their  gladness.  But  for  me  it  was 
her  art  and  the  finished  authority  she  displayed. 

73 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

It  seemed  so  very  easy,  as  she  sang;  none  of  the 
facial  distortion  or  writhing  of  body  which  is  too 
customarily  to  be  seen.  She  just  stood  there, 
like  a  feminine  Irish  rose,  and  brought  everyone 
to  her  feet. 

"It  is  a  just  tribute  to  one  of  the  greatest  sing- 
ers Ireland  ever  produced  to  say,  at  this  point, 
that  William  Ludwig  was  a  supreme  artist.  A 
Mr.  Walker,  an  accompanist  whose  father  knew 
Mendelssohn  well,  tells  of  having  played  for 
Ludwig  the  song,  'There  is  a  Green  Hill  Far 
Away.'  When  the  baritone  reached  the  phrase 
which  runs  'There  was  no  other  good  enough,' 
Walker  says  that  he  was  so  completely  under  the 
spell  of  Ludwig's  art  that  he  stopped  playing,  the 
better  to  listen.  He  stopped  his  accompaniment 
mechanically,  and  neither  he  nor  the  audience 
was  aware  that  for  some  time  there  was  no  piano, 
so  marvelous  was  the  reality  of  Ludwig's  sing- 
ing." 

Other  concerts  in  which  McCormack  and  Miss 
Foley  appeared  followed  that  one.  And  the 
months  passed,  carrying  John  from  one  place  to 
another,  with  voice  and  experience  expanding 
and  his  faith  expanding,  too. 

Then  came  the  day  of  a  certain  Mr.  Riordon, 
74 


Mrs.  John  McCormack,  with  the  children,  Cyril  and  Gwendolyn 


FIRST  MUSIC  STUDIES 

from  St.  Louis,  Missouri,  U.  S.  A.  It  was  an 
April  day  with  summer  approaching;  a  period 
unproductive  in  the  earning  capacities  of  the 
tenor,  who  was  giving  that  matter  thought. 
Riordon  represented  the  owners  of  The  Irish 
Village,  then  being  built  at  the  World's  Fair,  at 
St.  Louis,  and  among  other  needs  were  those  for 
two  of  Ireland's  representative  singers.  Many 
he  met,  but  the  two  whose  recommendations  im- 
pressed him  most  were  John  McCormack  and 
Lily  Foley. 

"The  wind  was  glowing  gustily  the  morning 
Riordon  came  to  see  me,"  said  McCormack. 
"He  was  one  of  that  direct  type  of  man,  who 
curtails  whatever  preliminaries  another  might 
indulge.  He  was  willing,  he  stated,  to  furnish 
me  transportation  to  St.  Louis  and  return  to  Dub- 
lin, pay  me  ten  pounds  a  week  and  guarantee  an 
engagement  of  six  months.  In  return  for  all 
this — which  loomed  a  fortune  to  me — I  was  to 
appear  twice  a  day  in  the  performance  to  be  given 
in  the  Irish  Village,  a  performance  partly  musical 
and  partly  theatrical.  Some  of  it,  I  was  to  dis- 
cover, was  not  considerate  of  the  Irish  people. 

"Riordon  was  a  plausible  man  and  the  thought 
of  a  visit  to  the  United  States  anything  but  dis- 

75 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

tasteful.  Friends,  whose  advice  I  sought,  in- 
fluenced me  to  accept,  which  was  what  I  was 
moved  to  do.  I  consequently  signed  the  con- 
tract Riordon  prepared. 

"Miss  Foley  had  already  sailed — for  she,  too, 
had  succumbed  to  Riordon's  offer — so  my  jour- 
ney to  Queenstown  and  across  the  Atlantic  was  a 
lonesome  affair.  I  felt  the  pangs  of  homesick- 
ness before  I  was  fifty  miles  away  from  Dublin, 
but  they  were  as  nothing  to  those  destined  to 
come.  And  I  never  knew  until  my  return  that 
my  father  would  have  prevented  my  going  to 
America  had  the  gang-plank  not  been  thrown  off 
from  the  tender  the  moment  it  was.  'Two  sec- 
onds more,  John,'  said  my  father  afterward,  'and 
I  shouldn't  have  let  you  go.'  The  steamer  I 
sailed  on  was  the  Lucania,  a  boat  on  which  I  made 
subsequent  trips  between  America  and  Ireland." 


76 


CHAPTER  VI 

EARLY    AMERICAN    DAYS 

"Never  will  the  first  sight  of  New  York,  and 
the  harbor,  fade  from  my  memory.  The  thrill 
of  it  still  lingers.  Our  ship  moved  up  the  bay, 
very  slowly  as  if  impressed  as  I  was  by  the  view 
which  lay  before  and  which  caught  and  held  my 
gaze  till  I  blinked.  It  was  like  nothing  I  had 
seen  or  imagined  before :  a  sweep  of  broad  waters 
ahead,  with  the  shorelines  of  Staten  Island  and 
Long  Island  to  left  and  right,  and  dead  forward 
of  our  bows  the  Statue  of  Liberty.  All  this  I 
saw  first.  Then  my  gaze,  elevated,  fell  upon 
lower  Manhattan,  upon  the  peaks  of  its  towers 
that  were  made  peaks  by  mortal  hands,  not  by 
Nature.  And  as  I  leaned  there  against  the  ship's 
rail,  my  feet  hard  upon  the  deck,  I  wondered 
what  that  land  held  in  store  for  me — if  anything. 

"I  have  been  called  psychic;  perhaps  I  am. 
But  whether  or  not,  I  experienced  a  strange  sen- 

77 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

sation  as  of  good  and  ill  meeting  and  refusing 
to  merge.  I  remained  there,  my  arms  leveled 
on  the  rail,  for  as  long  as  it  took  to  move  past  the 
Battery  and  on  up  the  North  River  to  the  ship's 
berth.  I  roused,  then,  went  below  and  at  ten 
o'clock  on  the  morning  of  Friday,  June  7,  1904, 
I  set  foot  for  the  first  time  on  the  soil  of  the  coun- 
try which  is  now  my  home ;  the  country  I  love  and 
of  which  I  shall  be  a  full-fledged  citizen  in  Janu- 
ary, Nineteen  Nineteen." 

"The  first  sight  ashore  that  caused  my  jaw  to 
drop  was  the  breadth  of  West  Street  and  the  jam 
of  its  traffic.  I  dimly  remember  getting  into  a 
cab  with  friends  and  a  careening  ride,  punctuated 
with  numerous  abrupt  stops  at  street-crossings, 
which  terminated  at  some  hotel,  I  know  not 
where.  I  was  in  New  York  for  two  days,  which  I 
spent  in  strolling  about  in  wonderment  at  the 
unusual  sights.  Then  I  was  taken  to  the  old 
Grand  Central  Station  and  boarded  a  train  that 
pulled  slowly  towards  St.  Louis. 

"Hundreds  of  thousands  of  miles  I  have  ridden 
on  railway  trains  since  that  day,  most  of  it  in  the 
United  States.  But  practice  has  made  me  no 
more  willing  traveler  than  I  was  then.  I  dis- 
like it,  immensely ;  nor  would  I  yield  were  it  not 

78 


EARLY  AMERICAN  DAYS 

for  my  audiences,  who  are  so  many  and  so  widely 
apart  that  I  can  go  better  to  them  than  to  ask 
them  to  come  to  me. 

"But — to  get  into  the  story  again — I  was  on 
my  way;  in  a  curious  turn  of  mind  if  not  exactly 
rejoicing.  And  some  thirty  hours  later  I 
alighted  in  the  Union  Station  in  St.  Louis,  weary, 
dirty,  I  fear,  and  in  need  of  refreshing.  I  was 
taken  to  a  boarding-house  where  accommoda- 
tions had  been  reserved  for  me  (those  were  not 
days  of  sufficient  affluence  to  permit  the  luxury 
of  a  first-class  hotel)  ;  and  my  first  efforts  lay  in 
the  direction  of  soap  and  much  water. 

"I  felt  better  when  I  had  tubbed,  but  there 
was  another  craving  to  grant.  I  needed  a  shave. 
And  there  came  to  me,  in  the  room  of  that  St. 
Louis  boarding-house,  a  longing  to  slip  into  a 
barber's  chair  and  have  another  perform  the  task. 
The  more  I  considered  it  the  stronger  the  desire 
grew,  and  I  ended  in  an  establishment  which 
looked  invitingly  clean.  It  was  clean ;  that  must 
have  been  the  proprietor's  axiom;  to  clean 
cleanly  those  customers  of  easy  guile.  For  they 
charged  me,  for  a  shave  and  the  polishing  of  my 
boots,  the  not  inconsiderable  sum  of  one  dollar 
and  sixty  cents." 

79 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

"You're  not  in  earnest;  you  don't  mean  I'm 
to  swallow  such  a  yarn  as  that?" 

"It's  no  yarn,"  said  John  severely,  "but  the 
truth.  A  dollar  and  sixty  cents,  that's  the 
amount.  And  at  the  end  of  the  week  my  opinion 
of  the  United  States  got  another  shock.  I  had 
accepted  the  tender  of  ten  pounds  a  week.  Well, 
in  my  mind  a  pound  in  English  money  is  five  dol- 
lars in  America's;  so  I  naturally  expected  to  re- 
ceive fifty  dollars.  But  what  do  you  suppose 
that  business-like  Riordon  paid  me?" 

I  had  not  recovered  sufficient  breath  to  reply, 
so  McCormack  supplied  the  answer  without  any 
request  on  my  part. 

"He  paid  me,  the  stingy  beggar,  forty-eight 
dollars  and  a  half;  that's  what  ten  pounds  came 
to,  figuring  the  prevailing  rate  of  exchange." 

"Very  nifty." 

"Very  nothing,"  retorted  the  tenor.  He 
hadn't  recovered  from  his  disgust;  it  is  probable 
that  he  never  will.  "But,"  he  went  on,  "I  real- 
ized Riordon  was  within  his  rights:  We  argued 
the  matter.  When  I  saw  his  determination  I 
knew  it  was  no  use.  And  that  incident,  with 
the  other  of  the  barber  shop,  left  I  can  assure 
you  a  most  unfavorable  impression  of  America 

80 


EARLY  AMERICAN  DAYS 

upon  my  unworldly  mind.  Of  course,"  he  sup- 
plemented, "it  was  transitory.  I've  laughed 
since — as  you  laughed  about  the  one-sixty — yet  I 
still  have  a  sympathetic  feeling  for  that  lonely 
boy,  John  McCormack;  only  nineteen,  in  a 
strange  land  thousands  of  miles  from  home  and 
being  mistreated." 

"But  you  had — Miss  Foley." 

"I  had  nothing  of  the  sort.  To  speak  truth- 
fully, Miss  Foley  never  so  much  as  left  the  stage, 
where  she  was  rehearsing,  when  I  first  saw  her  in 
the  Irish  Village.  I  recall,  distinctly,  that  she 
only  waved  her  hand  and  called  down  to  me:  'I 
hope  you  saw  father  before  you  left.  Did  you 
have  a  nice  trip?'  Oh,  no!  So  far  as  I  was 
then  concerned  Miss  Foley  was  a  most  exclusive 
young  person." 

"When  did  you  propose?  It  happened  in  St. 
Louis,  I  believe." 

"Yes,  though  some  weeks  later,  when  my 
courage  was  nearer  par.  But  before  I  asked 
her,"  said  the  tenor,  "I  found  myself  mechani- 
cally repeating  what  Forbes  Robertson  had  said 
to  me,  when  I  asked  him  how  it  happened  that 
Tony  Navarro  was  so  blessed  as  to  win  for  his 
wife  Mary  Anderson,  whose  friendship  I  so  dearly 

81 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

cherish.  Robertson  had  replied  to  my  question: 
'He  had  to  wade  knee-deep  through  admirers.' 
Well — /  had  to  wade  knee-deep  through  admir- 
ers to  win  Lily  Foley. 

"In  the  meantime — to  go  back — I  went  about 
the  Fair  Grounds  and  became  acquainted  with 
the  theatre  in  the  Irish  Village  where  I  was 
to  appear.  It  was  attractive  enough;  cheaply 
built,  of  course,  but  sufficient  for  the  purposes. 
I  pulled  myself  together  and  a  few  days  later  be- 
gan my  work. 

"But  there  was  something  askew.  Perhaps 
intuition  flashed  a  message  that  trouble  lay  ahead. 
I  only  know  that  one  afternoon,  six  weeks  after 
commencing  that  engagement,  I  saw  something 
on  the  stage  of  the  theatre  that  aroused  my  Irish 
blood  in  hot  resentment.  The  Irish  people  are 
my  people,  and  I'll  not  stand  by  and  have  them 
mistreated  or  slurred. 

"I  was  ready  to  go  on,  and  stood  to  one  side 
in  the  wings,  when  one  of  the  members  of  the 
company — a  new  member — passed  me  and 
stepped  before  the  audience.  He  was  made  up 
with  red  side-whiskers,  a  bit  of  putty  on  the  end 
of  his  nose  to  give  it  a  further  tilt  upwards  and 
he  wore  a  green  coat.  From  his  mouth  pro- 

82 


EARLY  AMERICAN  DAYS 

truded  a  clay  pipe.  My  first  impulse  was  to  fol- 
low and  forcibly  remove  this  caricature  of  an 
Irishman  from  the  stage;  prudence,  however, 
forbade.  I  stood  for  a  few  moments  watching 
his  clownish  antics;  remained  as  long  as  my  pa- 
tience endured,  and  then  I  sought  the  manage- 
ment of  the  theatre. 

"I  explained  that  this  man  was  insulting  a  fine 
people,  and  requested  that  his  'act,'  as  it  was 
called,  be  eliminated,  or  at  least  remodeled  to 
truthful  lines.  The  manager  only  curled  his  lip. 
'He  is  amusing  the  people,  and  that's  why  we 
hired  him.' 

"I  was  furious  to  the  point  of  being  ready  to 
fight.  Again  I  demanded  the  removal  of  the 
offensive  act,  which  was  as  positively  refused. 
Then  I  played  what  I  considered  my  trump  card. 
'Either  he  goes,'  I  said,  'or  I  go.'  The  manager 
inclined  his  head  and  replied,  'Very  well.' 

"I  received  what  was  due  me,  that  afternoon, 
and  never  again  did  I  sing  in  that  place. 

"Miss  Foley,  staunch  champion  of  Ireland, 
too,  said  I  had  done  exactly  right.  'Go  back 
home,  John,'  she  counseled;  Til  follow  you 
soon.'  I  lingered  a  few  days.  I  couldn't  bear 
to  leave  the  girl  I  loved,  and  to  whom  I  was  then 

83 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

engaged.  But  her  salary — it  was  larger  than 
mine — was  something  to  consider;  and  she  was 
gaining  notable  success.  For  she  danced  with 
the  skill  of  a  premiere  and  was  an  actress  of  such 
merit  that  she  had  attracted  an  offer  from  Will  J. 
Davis  to  star  her  in  light  opera.  So  we  agreed 
that  it  was  wisest  for  me  to  sail  home  alone. 

"But  before  I  went  I  had  a  long  talk  with  a  Dr. 
Cameron,  who  was  stationed  there  in  his  capacity 
of  a  United  States  Army  physician  in  charge  of 
the  Philippine  Marine  Band.  The  doctor  and 
I  had  had  many  visits,  sitting  together  in  the  Irish 
Village  after  Miss  Foley  and  I  had  finished  ap- 
pearing in  the  theatre.  Dr.  Cameron  was  one 
of  those  believed  in  me.  I  can  hear  his  words, 
even  now:  'You  have  a  future,  young  man,  but 
this  climate  isn't  the  best  one  for  your  voice. 
Italy  is  the  place  for  you ;  Italy,  with  its  balmy  air 
— and  the  singing  teachers.  You  mustn't  stay 
here,  lad,  the  climate  will  ruin  your  delicate 
voice.  If  you  can't  get  out  of  this  engagement 
I'll  give  you  a  doctor's  certificate.' 

"He  reminded  me,  again,  of  Italy  in  that  con- 
cluding talk  we  had.  Somehow  it  made  more 
of  an  impression  that  June  afternoon,  fourteen 

84 


years  ago,  than  ever  before.  'You  really  think 
so,  doctor?'  I  remember  having  said.  And  he 
answered :  'Some  day  you  will  find  out  for  your- 
self. 

"I  have  never  seen  Dr.  Cameron  since,  though 
I've  tried  very  hard  to  discover  his  whereabouts. 
I  hope — should  this  paragraph  ever  reach  his 
eyes — that  he  will  communicate  with  me.  For 
I  feel  that  I  owe  him  a  debt,  and  that  the  period 
of  payment  is  long  past  due." 

At  other  times,  previous  to  the  official  begin- 
ning of  setting  down  the  facts  contained  in  this 
volume,  McCormack  had  mentioned  Dr. 
Cameron:  once,  nine  years  ago,  in  the  lobby  of 
the  Manhattan  Opera  House,  in  New  York,  when 
the  tenor  was  with  Oscar  Hammerstein,  and  as 
recently  as  last  winter,  after  a  performance  of 
"La  Boheme,"  in  the  Metropolitan.  At  neither 
of  these  moments,  nor  during  other  whose  specific 
places  I  do  not  recall,  did  he  seem  so  concerned. 
On  that  June  afternoon,  in  the  year  Nineteen 
Hundred  Eighteen,  he  was  like  one  sorrowing 
for  a  lost  friend. 

Nor  did  John  forget  to  mention,  as  an  asso- 
ciate and  dear  friend  at  the  Irish  Village  who  was 

85 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

warmly  received,  Miss  Marie  Narelle,  a  soprano 
whose  voice  and  singing  have  since  been  heard  in 
some  notable  concerts. 

We  were  not  far  from  Rocklea,  the  fishing- 
dory  bowling  along  at  a  good  eight  knots  and 
rolling  in  the  rising  sea.  McCormack  sat  at  the 
wheel  looking  shorewards  under  knitted  brows 
that  showed  he  had  not  done  thinking  about  that 
United  States  Army  physician  who  passed  from 
the  tenor's  life  as  abruptly  as  he  entered  it.  He 
was  too  busy  with  his  thoughts  to  notice  my 
scrutiny;  but  I  observed  the  gradual  relaxing  of 
his  concern  in  the  task  of  piloting  his  craft. 

"I'm  developing  an  appetite,"  he  announced, 
as  we  rounded  a  point  of  land  that  put  us  into  the 
lee  of  the  wind  and  somewhat  under  the  shelter 
of  a  part  of  (Hollander,  Point.  "I  had  one  just 
like  it  the  day  I  landed  in  Queenstown,  after  my 
first  American  visit,  in  the  late  summer  of  1904. 
We'd  had  a  good  voyage.  And  I  was  nearing 
my  beloved  Ireland,  which  helped  to  lighten  the 
heaviness  of  my  heart  which  beat  for  another 
heart  in  St.  Louis.  But  my  experience  had 
helped,  and  I  really  believe  I  had  less  diffidence 
than  when  my  destination^had  lain  the  opposite 
way.  Perhaps  it  was  the  love  I  bore  my  native 

86 


EARLY  AMERICAN  DAYS 

land,  which  loomed  so  near;  I  was  very  agitated 
— I  well  remember  that.  A 

"The  possession  of  several  pounds  in  money 
gave  me  independence;  not  a  great  deal,  but 
enough  to  let  me  hold  up  my  head  with  the  con- 
sciousness that  I  was  getting  on.  If  my  arms 
had  been  big  enough  I  would  have  taken  the 
whole  city  of  Dublin  in  them  the  day  of  my  re- 
turn. Athlone,  too,  when  I  ran  down  to  spend 
some  time  with  father  and  mother  and  the  rest 
of  the  family. 

"They  seemed  proud  of  me,  and  we  had  a  real 
reunion.  Father,  always  sympathetic  because 
he  so  thoroughly  understood  me,  said:  'John, 
you'll  make  your  singing  mark  some  day.'  He 
appreciated  the  value  of  my  American  trip  and 
he  and  mother  and  I  talked  extensively  of  my 
future.  I  should  have  liked  to  stay  long  in 
Athlone,  it  was  so  restful  after  the  bustle  of  the 
cities  I  had  been  in.  But  there  was  work  to  do, 
and  the  day  of  parting  came.  We  all  were  a 
trifle  misty  about  the  eyes,  so  I  broke  suddenly 
and  left  them." 

John  ceased  his  narrative  for  a  spell,  for  Rock- 
lea  was  a  hundred  yards  off  our  starboard  bow, 
the  pier  drawing  nearer  and  nearer.  He  shut  off 

87 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

the  motor,  threw  the  wheel  over,  and  brought  us 
to  a  landing  pretty  enough  for  any  seaman.  A 
man  who  had  been  waiting  took  charge  of  the 
dory  and  John  and  I  climbed  to  the  boards  and 
stretched  our  legs. 

"Rain's  on  the  way,"  said  the  tenor,  sniffing 
and  casting  an  eye  skywards.  We  proceeded 
towards  the  house,  but  slowly;  McCormack 
clearly  wished  to  finish  that  next  episode  of  his 
story  before  we  passed  the  lawn. 

"That  fall  and  winter  of  Nineteen  Hundred 
Four  and  Five  brought  memorable  events  in  my 
life,"  said  he.  "I  heard  Caruso  for  the  first 
time,  made  some  phonograph  records — my  be- 
ginning— and  arranged  to  go  to  Italy  to  study. 
One  thing  crowded  another,  and  with  the  few 
concert  engagements  I  got  those  months  were 
completely  filled. 

"But,  first  of  all,  I  went  to  see  my  fiancee's 
father,  Patrick  Foley.  I  knew  him,  at  that  time, 
in  only  a  slight  way;  but  he  greeted  me  like  a 
son.  He  lived  only  two  years  longer,  yet  in  those 
two  years  he  unselfishly  gave  me  assistance  and 
counsel  that  could  not  have  been  more  devotedly 
bestowed  had  I  been  his  own  flesh  and  blood. 
I  thought  I  appreciated  the  worth  of  the  man 

88 


EARLY  AMERICAN  DAYS 

then.  It  has  taken  time,  however,  for  that,  a 
constant  turning  in  my  mind  of  what  he  was  to 
me,  his  sturdy  gentleness  and  infinite  patience  to 
point  out  what  in  his  judgment  was  best  for  me. 
He  was  unfailingly  right ;  God  rest  his  soul. 

"Well,"  said  John,  after  an  audible  sigh,  "we 
discussed  many  things.  I  had  had  two  invita- 
tions to  go  to  London  to  try  for  some  record-mak- 
ing among  the  phonograph  companies.  'Do 
you  think  a  trip  to  London  a  wise  plan?'  I  asked 
Mr.  Foley.  'Go,  lad,  by  all  means,'  was  his 
answer,  and  I  went. 

"I'd  never  seen  the  world's  metropolis.  It 
lay,  in  my  brain,  an  image  of  fancy,  and  during 
the  railway  ride  I  wondered  if  it  would  be  at  all 
as  I  had  pictured  it.  In  a  way  it  was,  with  some 
spots  very  like  those  of  my  imagination.  In- 
stantly I  was  held  by  its  reflection  of  material  sub- 
stance, the  semblance  of  long  and  honorable  up- 
building of  a  people  who  had  built  for  all  time. 

"It  appears  that  I  had  gained  enough  reputa- 
tion of  a  certain  character  to  filter  up  to  London. 
Reports  had  it  that  there  was  a  young  tenor  in 
Dublin  named  McCormack  who  had  something 
of  a  voice  and  a  way  of  singing  that  the  people 
liked.  And  these  two  invitations — one  from  the 

89 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

Edison  Company,  the  other  from  the  Gramo- 
phone Company — had  come  wholly  unsolicited. 
I  was  pleased,  yet  I  went  to  London  in  a  humble 
spirit,  glad  of  what  offered  and  hoping  it  would 
lead  to  something  of  a  permanent  nature  in  the 
way  of  recording. 

"There  was  a  temptation  to  count  unhatched 
chickens,  but  I  stoutly  resisted.  I  remembered 
the  remark  of  my  future  father-in-law,  who 
helped  me  in  so  many  ways,  to  the  effect — 'Try, 
always,  John,  to  make  the  best  use  of  your  time, 
but  do  not  anticipate  unwarrantedly.'  I  shall 
never  forget  aitether  kindly  suggestion  he  made 
to  me  when,  one  evening,  as  I  slipped  by  him  in  a 
narrow  passageway  in  a  concert  auditorium  has- 
tening after  a  friend,  Mr.  Foley  called  to  me. 
'Mac,'  he  said,  and  of  course  I  stopped.  'It 
doesn't  do  you  a  bit  of  harm  to  say  when  you 
brush  past  an  old  man  like  me,  "I  beg  your  par- 
don." He  wasn't  an  old  man,  but  I  never 
forgot. 

"Well,  I  called  on  the  Edison  manager  and 
made  arrangements  to  return  at  a  specified  time 
to  make  the  records  for  him,  and  left  his  office 
somewhat  elated.  Then  I  headed  up  Gray's 
Inn  Road,  towards  the  Gramophone  establish- 

90 


EARLY  AMERICAN  DAYS 

ment  which,  as  you  know,  is  the  sister  company  to 
the  Victor  Talking  Machine  Company,  of  Amer- 
ica. There,  also,  I  was  successful. 

"It  was  gratifying  to  qualify  with  both  com- 
panies, contracting  with  the  Edison  to  do  ten 
songs  for  fifty  pounds  and  to  record  twenty-five 
songs  for  twenty-five  pounds  for  the  Gramo- 
phone. The  difference  in  the  fees  I  received  was 
this:  for  the  fifty  pounds  the  Edison  Company 
was  to  pay  me  I  agreed  to  make  as  many  matrices 
as  might  be  necessary  to  secure  ten  perfect  rec- 
ords; but  my  agreement  with  the  Gramophone 
Company  required  only  a  single  record  for  each 
song,  regardless  of  whether  a  record  might  be 
slightly  imperfect." 

"Did  you  build  any  air  castles?"  I  queried. 
John  had  stopped  a  few  yards  from  the  house  to 
greet  his  Belgian  sheep  dog,  Nellie,  who  greeted 
him  with  sharp  yelps  of  joy,  leaping  the  while 
towards  his  face  which  she  was  straining  affec- 
tionately to  caress. 

"Get  down,  Nell!  Sit  down  and  compose 
yourself."  Which  the  dog  obediently  did, 
though  her  tail  wagged  at  a  tremendous  rate. 
"What  mischief  have  you  been  up  to?"  he  de- 
manded, in  a  tone  of  canine  understanding. 

91 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

"Tell  me!"  Nellie  barked  joyously,  and 
straightway  came  to  all  fours  and  leaped  again. 
They  frisked  about  together,  master  and  dog,  un- 
til interrupted  by  the  appearance  of  Mrs.  Mc- 
Cormack  on  the  veranda. 

We  proceeded  in  a  group — McCormack,  and 
Nellie  and  I — to  the  house,  where  Mrs.  Mc- 
Cormack showed  a  worried  look.  "I  was  won- 
dering— "  she  began,  when  John  stopped  the 
sentence  with  a  kiss. 

"If  I'd  got  back  safe  with  the  dory.  That  was 
it,  wasn't  it?"  His  life  partner  admitted  her 
concern  and  present  relief,  and  reminded  us  that 
the  dinner  hour  was  near. 

"Five  minutes  more,  then  I'm  free.  He 
makes  me  work,  this  man;  and  in  vacation  time, 
too."  Mrs.  McCormack  smiled  indulgently. 
"Five  minutes,  then,"  she  said,  "but  no  more," 
and  she  left  us. 

"You  asked  me  a  question,"  reminded  John, 
picking  up  the  thread  of  our  conversation  where 
Nellie's  impetuous  arrival  had  sent  it  spinning. 
"Oh,  yes,  air  castles.  Of  course  I  built  them, 
and  they  were  fine  ones,  with  many  rooms  and  ex- 
clusive furnishings — and  works  of  art,  which  I 
revel  in.  Air  castles?  I  should  say;  I  reared  and 

92 


EARLY  AMERICAN  DAYS 

demolished  them  and  rebuilt  them  again.  It's  a 
pleasant  labor,  diverting  and  generally  harmless. 

"I  built  a  dozen  or  two  when,  on  reaching  Dub- 
lin and  talking  with  Mr.  Foley,  he  told  me  he  be- 
lieved Dr.  Cameron's  advice  about  Italy  should 
be  heeded.  'You  ought  to  go,'  he  decided,  'and 
we'll  start  planning  a  way.' 

"Nothing  definite  was  reached  in  that  prelim- 
inary conversation  concerning  one  of  the  desires 
my  heart  had  been  set  on  for  several  months. 
Mr.  Foley  had  ideas,  and  one  which  ultimately 
proved  practical  under  his  guiding  hand.  Sev- 
eral days  later  he  told  me  of  it,  and  it  was  this. 
A  testimonial  concert  was  to  be  arranged ;  a  con- 
cert on  a  pretentious  scale  which  Mr.  Foley  as- 
sured me  he  would  personally  manage  himself." 

Although  this  volume  is  officially  McCor- 
mack's  own,  some  of  the  facts  incorporated  in  it 
have  been  supplied  by  persons  other  than  the 
tenor.  And  it  is  better  so,  because  otherwise 
they  would  not  have  come  to  my,  and  the  gen- 
eral public's,  knowledge.  For  John  has  a  way  of 
often  avoiding  some  incident  that  places  him  in 
an  advantageous  light;  and  then,  another's  view- 
point not  infrequently  brings  to  the  surface  some 

93 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

element  or  climax  which  sounds  better  than  it 
would  have  sounded  had  it  dropped  from  the  ten- 
or's lips. 

Michael  Keane,  one  of  McCormack's  staunch- 
est  admirers  and  a  "booster"  from  the  first  mo- 
ment he  heard  him,  imparted  the  information  of 
the  tenor's  introductory  appearance  in  London. 
Mr.  Keane — now  American  representative  for 
the  music  publishing  firm  of  Boosey  and  Com- 
pany— was  at  that  time  an  associate  of  Robert 
Newman,  manager  of  Queen's  Hall.  As  many 
know,  this  auditorium  was  the  London  home  for 
the  symphony  and  the  ballad  concerts,  with  a 
seating  capacity  of  some  thirty-five  hundred  and 
having  back  of  it  fine  traditions. 

I  had  gone  to  see  Mr.  Keane  at  McCormack's 
request.  In  a  few  minutes  we  were  in  the  heart 
of  matters  McCormack;  and  in  the  snug  little 
New  York  office  of  Boosey  and  Company,  in  East 
Seventeenth  street,  Michael  Keane  talked  on  for 
hours,  ignoring  the  approach  and  passing  of  the 
luncheon  hour.  But  it  was  time  profitably 
spent. 

"None  of  us  in  London  knew  of  John  McCor- 
mack at  the  time  he  burst  upon  us  at  a  concert 
in  Queen's  Hall,  in  November  of  Nineteen  Four, 

94 


EARLY  AMERICAN  DAYS 

given  by  the  Gaelic  League.  The  tenor  had 
been  heard  by  some  of  the  gentlemen  of  the 
League,  the  afternoon  he  won  the  first  prize  in 
the  Dublin  Feis  Coeil,  and  they  concluded  that 
his  appearance  at  that  important  London  concert 
would  add  to  its  interest.  It  certainly  did. 

"I  chanced,"  continued  Mr.  Keane,  "to  be  in 
the  auditorium  when  John  came  upon  the  plat- 
form. He  walked  to  a  place  near  the  piano  with 
an  agreeable  unconsciousness  we  have  since 
learned  is  characteristic  of  him,  and  waited  for 
the  accompanist  to  begin  the  prelude  to  that  rare 
song,  'The  Irish  Emigrant.'  Apart  from  show- 
ing a  casual  concern  in  an  unknown  Irish  tenor 
I  doubt,"  explained  Mr.  Keane,  "if  I  held  any 
special  interest.  Certainly,  I  had  no  idea  that  I 
should  be  so  affected  by  what  I  was  to  hear." 

"Then  he  made  an  impression?" 

"Rather!"  said  Mr.  Keane  emphatically. 
"Personally,  I  was  amazed.  The  voice,  then, 
was  what  I  term  a  pure  Irish  tenor;  with  the  rich- 
ness in  the  middle  of  it,  and  that  delightful  sug- 
gestion— just  a  suggestion,  mind  you — of  nasal 
quality  in  his  top  notes.  It  was  a  typically  Irish 
tenor  voice — of  the  finest  sort,  and  by  far  the 
most  beautiful  I  ever  had  heard. 

95 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

"The  boy  sang  wonderfully,  too,  even  then. 
It  was  evident  to  one  uninitiated  in  the  art  of 
singing  what  manner  of  tenor  he  was;  and  the 
probability  of  his  future  status.  The  audience 
present  at  that  Gaelic  League  concert  sensed  all 
that  I  have  said,  and  received  him  with  enthusi- 
asm. But  I  doubt  if  any  one  was  so  completely 
overjoyed  as  I.  I  did  not  wait  to  hear  the  en- 
core which  the  auditors  demanded  after  'The 
Irish  Emigrant.'  As  fast  as  my  legs  would  carry 
me,  I  rushed  upstairs  to  Mr.  Newman's  office. 

;  'If  you  would  hear  the  greatest  Irish  tenor 
ever  produced,'  I  gasped  out,  'come  quickly.' 
But  Mr.  Newman,  with  whom  I  had  been  asso- 
ciated for  eighteen  years,  only  smiled.  Tm 
busy,  Michael,'  he  replied,  'but  when  I've  fin- 
ished I'll  try  to  get  down.'  He  thought  me 
over-enthusiastic,  because  McCormack  was  a  fel- 
low-countryman . 

"Well,  I  returned  to  the  auditorium  to  hear 
the  rest  of  that  Irish  boy's  songs.  And  I  never 
doubted — not  when  John  struggled  against  ob- 
stacles after  he  made  London  his  headquarters 
— that  he  would  eventually  be  accepted  as  not 
only  the  greatest  Irish  singer,  but  the  greatest 
singer  in  the  world." 

96 


CHAPTER  VII 

STUDIES    IN    ITALY 

I  was  busy  in  a  study  in  an  enticingly  secluded 
part  of  the  McCormacks'  Rocklea  home,  late  on 
the  night  when  John  recounted  Mr.  Foley's  an- 
nouncement of  the  proposed  benefit  concert. 
About  me,  on  a  large  table,  were  ranged  letters, 
memoranda,  and  private  documents  belonging  to 
the  tenor  to  which  he  had  given  me  access;  a 
veritable  mass  of  informative  and  interesting  data 
— and  many  pages  of  the  manuscript  of  this  book. 
Few  persons  have  been  privileged  to  burrow  into 
the  material  which  lay  about;  it  represented  the 
accumulations  of  years,  some  of  it  almost  as  old 
as  the  Irish  singer  himself. 

The  night  was  cool,  for  it  was  before  the  hot 
period  of  our  remarkable  summer  of  Nineteen 
Hundred  Eighteen,  and  a  breeze  touched  with  a 
salty  aroma  of  the  Sound  came  through  the  open 
windows  into  the  room.  An  electric  lamp, 

97 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

nearly  hidden  by  a  wide-spreading  and  drooping 
shade,  shed  its  rays  in  a  circle  of  generous 
size. 

I  sat  smoking  my  pipe,  rather  meditatively, 
and  finding  a  growing  interest  in  each  hitherto 
new,  to  me,  fact  as  I  dug  it  from  some  hiding- 
place,  and  recorded  it  where  it  belonged.  It  was 
past  midnight,  an  hour  when  some  minds  are 
most  active :  the  working  time  for  the  few  just  as 
it  is  sleeping  time  for  the  many. 

A  stiffness  of  body  from  long  sitting  over  my 
work  sent  me  to  my  feet  and  to  the  window  where 
the  curtains  fluttered  under  the  wind.  It  had 
died  down  since  our  earlier  landing  from  the 
dory,  but  it  still  whipped  the  Sound  waters  until 
the  surface  was  tipped  with  cappings  that  showed 
dead  white  under  the  light  of  the  moon.  The 
lawn  was  dark,  but  at  the  pierhead,  beyond,  a 
small  space  was  illumined. 

And  then  there  crossed  my  gaze  a  moving  fig- 
ure. I  saw  it  first  to  my  left,  about  a  hundred 
feet  from  the  house.  But  instead  of  proceeding 
in  my  direction  the  figure,  which  was  unquestion- 
ably a  man's,  was  headed  for  the  pier.  I  saw  it 
go  on — past  the  south  side  of  the  lawn,  to  the 
beach  and  out  upon  the  pier.  In  another  mo- 

98 


STUDIES  IN  ITALY 

ment  the  man  would  be  in  the  spot  where  the 
moon's  rays  touched. 

I  watched,  curiosity  more  than  concern  hold- 
ing my  attention,  for  the  instant  when  the  figure 
should  break  from  darkness  into  comparative 
light.  Ten  seconds,  five  more  passed.  Then 
I  saw.  There  was  no  mistaking  the  contour  of 
that  body,  the  flare  of  shoulders  and  the  bared 
head.  It  was  McCormack. 

Wondering  what  took  him  up  and  out  at  that 
hour  of  night,  for  he  is  a  sound  sleeper,  I  left 
him  to  whatever  object  he  might  have  had  in  view, 
and  returned  to  my  work.  It  was  a  matter  of 
perhaps  a  quarter  of  an  hour  when  I  heard  a  foot- 
fall behind  me,  which  brought  me  about  to  face 
the  direction  of  the  sound. 

"Hello,  John!"  I  greeted.  "What  keeps  you 
up?" 

"I  saw  your  light,  from  outside,"  he  re- 
sponded, ignoring  my  question.  He  walked  over 
to  the  table,  picked  up  the  pages  of  the  manu- 
script and  sitting  down  began  to  read.  He  did 
not  look  up  or  speak  until  he  had  finished; 
whereupon  he  laid  the  typed  script  aside  to  dis- 
cuss certain  parts  of  it. 

I  have  never  before  written  a  book  in  col- 
99 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

laboration,  but  should  circumstances  make  such 
procedure  wise  again  I  shouldn't  mind  having  as 
collaborator  John  McCormack.  He  has  the 
writer's  discernment  and  feeling,  and  an  unerring 
sense  of  what  belongs.  Sitting  there,  he  offered 
several  suggestions:  changes,  at  one  point,  of 
elimination,  of  addition  at  another  and  rephras- 
ing of  some  quotations  of  his  own  that  his  exact 
words  should  be  set  down.  We  made  them,  on 
the  spot;  which  seemed  to  give  the  tenor  satis- 
faction. At  any  rate,  he  lighted  a  cigarette,  in- 
haled and  blew  the  smoke  above  his  head. 

"You  don't  mind,  I  hope — those  suggestions. 
You  see  I'm  rather  particular  about  having  every- 
thing just  as  it  happened." 

I  told  him  his  desire  was  likewise  mine,  that 
without  such  aid  as  he  was  giving  we  could  not 
make  the  book  the  thing  it  was  intended  to  be: 
an  authorized  version  of  the  story  of  his  life,  his 
own  tale  which,  so  to  speak,  should  be  an  official 
document. 

He  seemed  pleased  at  that.  Mrs.  McCormack 
confided  to  me,  the  next  day,  that  John  had  fussed 
continually  ever  since  our  work  had  begun; 
fussed  as  he  does  when  he  undertakes  anything 
worth  while,  in  his  continually  expressed  belief 

100 


STUDIES  IN  ITALY 

that  whatever  is  worth  doing  at  all  is  worth  doing 
well.  And  in  the  remaining  weeks  of  our  com- 
bined endeavor,  weeks  filled  with  almost  daily 
consultation,  McCormack  displayed  the  same  in- 
terest, the  same  concern  for  accuracy  and  consist- 
ency and  an  unflagging  zeal  to  do  the  job  well. 
Never  once  did  he  become  irritable  under  my 
fusillade  of  questions;  he  would  go  over  again 
any  episode  which  needed  clarifying,  and  in  our 
revisions  his  patience  never  broke. 

"I  was  thinking — outside,  there — what  a  lot 
I  have  to  be  thankful  for.  I  like  to  wander 
around,  that  way,  sometimes,  to  get  off  by  my- 
self and  try  to  get  an  unbiased  perspective.  It's 
a  great  help  to  keep  one  on  the  rails ;  a  stabilizer 
of  the  best  sort." 

I  agreed,  as  I  often  did  when  John  fell  into  one 
of  his  communicative  moods,  by  inclining  my 
head. 

"Funny,"  he  observed,  "but  just  a  moment 
ago,  down  on  the  pier,  I  happened  to  recall  the 
first  time  I  heard  Caruso.  It  wasn't  long  before 
I  left  Dublin  for  Italy,  and  a  short  time  after  I 
had  made  my  records  for  the  Edison  and  Gramo- 
phone companies.  It  was  at  Covent  Garden, 
London;  the  opera,  'La  Boheme.'  You  can  well 

101 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

imagine  my  state  of  mind  at  reaching  my  seat  in 
that  distinguished  old  institution.  My  heart 
fluttered  almost  as  a  spinster's  at  the  moment  of 
approaching  proposal.  I  had  read  and  heard  so 
much  about  this  great  artist  that  I  could  scarcely 
wait  for  the  curtain. 

'  'La  Boheme'  was  as  much  of  a  novelty  as  the 
tenor,  but  it  was  he  in  whom  my  interest  centred : 
the  type  of  his  voice,  his  manner  of  using  it  and 
his  interpretative  style.  My  ears  and  mind  were 
full  of  the  man  and  I  was  as  nervous  as  a  horse  at 
the  starting-post  until  Caruso,  garbed  as  the 
Bohemian  Rodolfo,  sang  his  opening  phrases. 

"I  was  not  there  in  the  role  of  cantankerous, 
captious  critic.  Presumptuousness  held  no  part 
of  me.  But  when  I  listened  to  the  opening 
phrases  of  Puccini's  music,  sung  by  that  inde- 
scribably glorious  voice  as  Caruso  alone  could 
sing,  my  jaw  dropped  as  though  hung  on  a  hinge. 
Such  smoothness  and  purity  of  tone,  and  such 
quality;  it  was  like  a  stream  of  liquid  gold. 

"And  yet,  one  other  person  in  Covent  Garden 
had  a  slightly  different  and,  I  thought,  odd  im- 
pression. Attracted  by  the  same  magnet  as  I, 
J.  C.  Doyle,  the  baritone  I  spoke  of  and  a  fine 
man  and  artist,  and  his  brother  Jim  went  to  the 

102 


STUDIES  IN  ITALY 

performance,  dilating  upon  the  capacities  of  one 
of  the  greatest,  if  not  the  greatest,  of  singers  of 
all  time.  The  tenor  was  well  along  in  the  first 
act,  and  nearing  the  Rocconto  aria,  when  Jim 
Doyle,  unaware  that  he  was  actually  hearing 
Caruso  at  the  moment,  remarked  to  his  brother: 
'Well,  if  Caruso  can  sing  any  better  than  this  boy, 
Caruso  certainly  can  sing!' 

"It  was  the  best  lesson,  up  to  that  moment,  I 
had  ever  received  and  a  stimulus  which  cannot 
be  described.  The  sound  of  Caruso's  voice  that 
night  lingered  in  my  ears  for  months,  and  will 
doubtless  linger  there  always.  It  will  always  be 
to  me  one  of  the  memorable  moments  of  my  life. 
I  looked  up  to  him,  as  I  do  still,  as  a  supremely 
gifted  artist;  unique,  performing  vocal  feats  no 
other  tenor  can,  and  standing  apart  from  the  rest, 
a  model  for  all. 

"I  sang  a  number  of  concert  engagements  dur- 
ing Nineteen  Hundred  Four  and  Five ;  in  Dublin 
and  several  other  places,  and  for  the  usual  small 
fees,  varying  from  twenty  to  thirty  shillings. 
But  I  was  no  aggrieved  participant.  Each  ap- 
pearance carried  a  definite  significance  and  was 
something  to  be  seriously  regarded  as  a  duty  to 
my  public  and  myself.  I  have  been  that  way 

103 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

always,  and  shall  continue  to  be.  For  no  matter 
how  seemingly  inconsequential  the  task,  it  is 
worth  doing  in  only  a  single  way. 

"At  last  came  the  night  of  my  benefit  concert: 
Mr.  Foley  had  prepared  for  it  with  his  accus- 
tomed businesslike  thoroughness,  neglecting  his 
own  interests  and  toiling  with  such  zealousness 
and  disregard  of  his  own  health  that  on  the  day 
of  days  he  was  confined  to  his  bed,  under  his 
physician's  care.  Yet  he  could  not  be  dissuaded 
from  rising  at  six  o'clock  and,  after  vainly  at- 
tempting to  eat,  going  to  the  hall  and  into  the  box 
office  to  see  personally  that  all  moneys  were  ac- 
curately accounted  for. 

"I  think  we  may  term  that  unselfish  devotion. 

"The  concert  was  considered  a  success.  My 
patrons  (and  I  deeply  appreciate  their  willing- 
ness to  help  a  young  singing  student  get  his  de- 
sired education)  appeared  pleased  and  liked,  es- 
pecially, the  songs  I  sang  at  the  concert,  which 
were  'In  Her  Simplicity,'  the  last  act  aria  from 
'Mignon,'  'The  Snowy  Breasted  Pearl,'  and  Tos- 
ti's  'My  Dreams.'  These  were  the  three  pro- 
gramme numbers,  but  there  were  many  en- 


cores. 

tic 


Well,  the  concert  netted  me  ninety  pounds; 
104 


STUDIES  IN  ITALY 

and  Mr.  Foley  and  Lily,  who  had  triumphed  with 
me  in  the  affair,  and  I  held  a  mild  celebration  at 
the  Foley  home. 

"My  affairs  were  arranged:  the  good-byes  to 
my  parents  and  sisters  and  brother  said,  my  be- 
longings packed,  and  I  was  ready  to  depart  south- 
ward. Then  occurred  a  strange  incident.  Mr. 
Fair,  living  in  Athene  and  a  friend  of  father's, 
an  amateur  singer  of  limited  capacities,  but  one 
who  had  studied  extensively  and  was  really  well 
informed,  though  an  indifferent  performer  him- 
self, stopped  me  on  the  street. 

'  'I  understand  you  are  going  to  Italy  to  study,' 
said  he;  'who  is  to  be  your  teacher?'  I  told  him 
I  had  no  idea.  'Well,'  volunteered  Mr.  Fair, 
'I  spent  some  time  over  there ;  and  I  worked  with 
ever  so  many  so-called  singing  masters.  Most 
of  them  are  incapable;  many  are  charlatans.'  I 
received  this  information  with  trepidation.  'I 
did  find,  however,'  declared  the  doctor  positively, 
'one  man  who  knew  his  business.  His  name  is 
Vincenzo  Sabatini.  He's  an  old  man,  past 
seventy  now,  yet  he  is  the  one  you  should  go  to — 
if  he  will  consent  to  take  you.' 

"I  left  Dublin  with  a  letter  to  Sabatini  from 
Mr.  Fair,  and  en  route  I  rehearsed  until  letter-per- 

105 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

feet  the  plea  I  should  make  to  induce  him  to  ac- 
cept me  as  a  pupil. 

"Milan  was  reached  at  last;  Milan  with  its 
thousands  of  singing  hopefuls,  boys  and  girls 
from  all  lands,  vying  with  one  another  for  the 
equipment  which  should  yield  them  victory  and 
its  fruits.  An  ambitious  lot,  some  of  them  ex- 
cellently equipped  for  their  desired  tasks  and 
others  less  fortunate,  perhaps;  but  all  of  them 
doing  their  best  according  to  their  individual 
lights." 

John  got  up,  stretched  his  arms,  and  took  a 
turn  to  the  window  and  back. 

"And  when  you  arrived  at  Sabatini's  studio," 
I  observed,  suggestively,  "you  found  that  you 
had — lost  the  letter  of  introduction?" 

"That  would  have  been  more  or  less  dra- 
matic," agreed  McCormack,  "only  it  wasn't  what 
happened.  There  was  small  chance,  for  I  had 
the  thing  pinned  to  the  inside  pocket  of  my  waist- 
coat; with  a  safety-pin,  too.  As  I  did  not  speak 
or  understand  Italian  it  was  agreed  that  I  should 
be  identified  by  a  handkerchief  tied  about  one 
arm,  and  I  stood  on  the  station  platform  until  I 
was  seen  and  rescued. 

"Yes,"  he  remarked,  reseating  himself,  "I  had 
106 


STUDIES  IN  ITALY 

the  letter.  And  I  held  it  in  my  hand  when  I 
went  into  the  old  maestro 's  studio,  my  legs  some- 
what wobbly  from  nervous  anticipation  of  hearing 
a  possible  'no.' 

"I  can  see  him  even  now,"  mused  the  tenor, 
"a  wonderfully  preserved  man,  physically,  look- 
ing fifteen  years  younger  than  he  was,  with  white 
hair,  which  was  thin  and  was  brushed  straight 
back,  and  moustache,  and  eyebrows  silvered,  too, 
and  a  broad  brow  above  wide-set  eyes. 

"Disturbed  you,  then?" 

"Not  in  the  way  I  had  expected  to  be,"  replied 
John.  "There  was  a  quality  about  Sabatini  of 
old-fashioned  courtliness  which  softened  his 
piercing  gaze.  He  spoke  almost  no  word  of  my 
language,  but  his  wife  was  an  Englishwoman — 
his  accompanist  and  valued  aide.  It  was  she 
who  had  first  greeted  me,  and  she  opened  the 
letter  from  Mr.  Fair  as  Sabatini  advanced  a  few 
steps  and  greeted  me  with  a  formality  that  held 
no  coldness.  He  was  no  poseur. 

"I  scrutinized  him  as  he  listened  while  his  wife 
read  the  letter  to  him,  and  I  was  thus  engaged 
when  the  maestro  looked  up. 

'  'So  you  would  become  a  singer,'  queried 
Sabbatini;  'well,  let  us  see  if  there  is  the  chance,' 

107 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

He  retraced  his  steps  to  a  chair  near  the  piano, 
where  Signora  Sabatini  sat  waiting  while  I  se- 
lected my  music. 

"I  don't  know  why  I  experienced  no  sense  of 
fear,  standing  before  that  critical  voice-master 
and  well  aware  that  it  was  then  or  never.  It  was 
a  moment  of  inexpressible  anxiety.  Yet  my 
mind  never  was  clearer  nor  my  confidence  more 
secure.  I  sang,  spurred  by  the  possible  re- 
ward, with  more  fervor  than  was  my  wont.  The 
test  was  completed  in  a  few  minutes ;  the  time  ar- 
rived which  my  boyish  longing  had  lived  over 
and  over  again  during  the  days  of  unleashed 
hopes. 

"Sabatini  did  not  immediately  speak,  but  he 
rose  slowly  from  his  seat  as  though  cogitating 
something  important  and  not  to  be  prematurely 
divulged.  Then  he  turned  to  his  wife,  and 
spoke  rapidly  to  her  in  Italian — something  at 
which  she  inclined  her  head,  speaking  Italian 
also  as  she  did  so. 

'You  have  come  to  ask  me  if  I  will  take  you 
as  a  pupil — and  that  I  will.  But  I  cannot  place 
your  voice.'  My  heart  felt  a  lump  of  lead  at 
those  portentous  words.  'I  cannot  place  your 
voice,'  said  the  maestro,  'because  God  did  that.' 

108 


STUDIES  IN  ITALY 

"I  vaguely  recollect  his  saying  other  things, 
but  I  did  not  comprehend.  His  words  kept  re- 
volving in  my  mind,  like  the  turning  of  a  wheel ; 
and  I  kept  seeing  them  chase  after  one  another  in 
that  single  phrase:  4I  cannot  place  your  voice, 
God  did  that.'  " 

We  sat  in  the  secluded  study,  John  McCor- 
mack  and  I,  for  some  minutes,  in  silence.  He 
had  painted  his  word-picture  well;  I  could 
glimpse  the  youth  of  twenty,  eager  and  buoyant, 
getting  his  verdict  and  being  a  bit  stunned  by  it. 

"I  discovered,  later,  that  Sabatini  liked  my 
voice  and  believed  a  career  was  assured.  But  he 
explained  the  elements  involved:  opportunity 
and  what  I  suppose  we  might  designate  a  'break 
in  the  luck.' 

"I  cannot  complain  as  to  that.  Luck  or  for- 
tune, or  Providence's  beneficent  dispensation  has 
been  rather  near  my  elbow.  And  I  have 
worked,  and  endured  privations  and  disappoint- 
ments. Without  them  the  singer  does  not  feel; 
not  to  the  depths  of  his  soul. 

"Well,"  exclaimed  the  tenor,  and  he  emerged 
abruptly  and  with  some  show  of  physical  force 
as  of  having  brusquely  shed  himself  of  some  in- 
ternal cloak  of  sentiment,  "we  arranged  for  les- 

109 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

sons,  Sabatini  and  I.  One  every  day,  except- 
ing Sundays;  the  price  twenty  dollars  a  month. 
And  on  March  21st,  1905,  we  began. 

"I  found  living  quarters  in  Pension  Betham 
Via  Brera  5  at  thirty  dollars  a  month,  including 
my  meals.  Once  installed  and  my  tuition  under 
way  I  felt  the  world  a  bright  and  exceedingly 
good-natured  place  to  live  in.  I  began  blithely, 
almost,  a  song  in  my  heart  as  continually  as  it 
was  on  my  lips. 

"Details  of  a  singing  student's  routine  make 
commonplace  reading.  Mine  was  no  different 
course  from  that  of  any  other  aspirant  for  sing- 
ing honors;  from  those,  I  should  say,  who  were 
serious  and  had  to  make  time  and  money  count. 
For  me  there  were  no  periods  of  idleness  or  ques- 
tionable pleasures.  There  is  but  a  single  ex- 
pression which  fits  what  I  did:  I  'plugged.' 

"Two  objects  engaged  the  chief  attention  of 
Sabatini  in  our  work:  the  acquiring  of  a  mezza- 
voce,  which  I  did  not  have  by  nature,  and  the 
freeing  of  my  high  tones.  The  voice  was  not 
what  is  called  a  'long'  voice  (by  which  I  mean 
plenty  of  compass,  from  bottom  to  top)  and  the 
top  notes  were  in  my  throat ;  but  to  get  them  out 
with  freedom,  so  that  a  high  A  or  B-flat  had 

110 


STUDIES  IN  ITALY 

the  same  relative  quality  as  the  lower  part  of 
the  voice,  required  constant,  painstaking  teach- 
ing on  Sabatini's  part  and  practice  on  my  own. 
The  mezza-voce  (singing  with  half  the  volume  of 
the  full  voice,  or  with  less  than  half)  was  a  slow 
process ;  often  I  grew  discouraged  over  it. 

"My  maestro  spent  no  time  teaching  me  the 
operas.  The  roles  of  every  opera  now  in  my 
repertoire  (I  have  twenty-five)  I  learned  by  my- 
self. When  they  were  musically  committed  to 
memory  Sabatini  'passed'  them,  as  we  say  in  sing- 
ing parlance,  and  offered  suggestions  as  to  their 
interpretation.  But  my  endeavors,  as  may  be 
apparent,  so  far  as  Sabatini  is  concerned,  lay  in 
the  direction  of  acquiring  an  evenness  of  the 
vocal  scale ;  of  making  the  voice  smooth  in  every 
note,  and  in  gaining  ease  of  production  and  cer- 
tainty— in  short,  a  technique  which  in  time 
would  become  so  perfect  mechanically  as  to  allow 
me  to  forget  technique,  while  I  sang,  and  devote 
my  attention  exclusively  to  the  interpretation  of 
the  music  and  of  the  text.  For  such  singing,  I 
contend,  is  what  constitutes  the  art  and  permits 
the  artist  to  convey  his  message  with  sincerity  to 
his  hearers. 

"I  remained  in  Milan,  during  that  first  stay, 
111 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

from  March,  Nineteen  Hundred  Five,  to  May — 
just  two  months.  In  that  time  I  studied  Italian 
assiduously,  giving  hours  each  day  to  it  and 
mingling  freely  with  Italians  in  practising  the 
speech.  My  Latin  and  Greek  knowledge  was  of 
inestimable  help  and  besides  I  had  the  lingual 
facility,  so  much  so  that  in  six  weeks  from  my 
arrival  in  Milan  I  understood  everything  in  Ital- 
ian which  was  said,  and  spoke  with  reasonable 
fluency. 

"Sabatini  discontinued  his  teaching  before 
warm  weather  arrived,  and  as  I  knew  no  pro- 
nounced advancement  could  be  made  during  his 
absence,  I  elected  to  return  to  Ireland  and  come 
back  to  Italy  the  following  fall.  So  I  wrote 
home  that  I  should  soon  depart,  and  before  June 
arrived  I  was  again  in  Dublin — and  devoting 
myself  to  Miss  Lily  Foley." 


112 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    RETURN    TO    ITALY 

"During  that  summer  of  1905,"  said  McCor- 
mack,  "I  gained  some  understanding  of  how 
fortunate  I  was  in  having  the  pledge  of  Lily 
Foley  to  become  Mrs.  John  McCormack.  I 
spent  part  of  those  four  months  in  Dublin  and 
part  with  my  family  in  Athlone.  And  I  was 
happy.  My  conjecture  as  to  the  future  was 
probably  a  stimulating  force,  and  the  few  con- 
cert engagements  which  came  to  me  helped. 
Nor  will  I  forget  the  strength  I  felt  in  the  un- 
speakably unselfish  friendship  of  Patrick  Foley 
— my  second  father. 

"Time  does  not  pass  as  swiftly  to  the  young 
as  to  the  old.  It  lingered,  throughout  those 
months  in  Nineteen  Hundred  Five,  and  although 
I  was  loath  to  leave  those  I  loved  I  felt  the  tug 
of  duty;  of  having  much  to  accomplish,  and  of 
the  path  of  that  accomplishment  leading  toward 

113 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

Italy.  There  I  found  myself,  in  October; 
twenty-one,  and  eager. 

"My  dear  old  Sabatini  had  returned  to  his 
studio — it  was  a  romantic  address,  Via  Victor 
Hugo,  Number  Four — the  day  before  I  reached 
Milan.  I  found  him  there,  after  I  had  settled 
down  at  the  same  Pension  Betham,  Number  Five 
Via  Brera,  and  had  hurried  to  greet  him.  Hav- 
ing got  a  start  in  the  spring,  I  trod  the  streets  of 
Milan  with  a  feeling  of  belonging  there,  in  a  way. 
The  buildings  and  byways  were  familiar,  even 
some  of  the  people  I  met  as  I  passed  along;  and 
I  spoke  the  language. 

"I  had  been  to  mass  that  morning,  and  my 
hopes  were  soaring.  Health  and  optimism  were 
mine — and  the  faith  of  the  Irish  Catholic.  In 
that  mood  of  good-will  towards  men  I  reached 
Sabatini's  studio,  to  be  greeted,  first,  by  Signora 
Sabatini.  She  was  calm,  as  was  her  custom, 
but  glad  to  see  me.  I  could  see  that  in  her  fine 
eyes,  and  feel  it  in  the  warm  clasp  of  her  artistic 
fingers. 

"But  it  was  a  more  demonstrative  reception 
which  the  maestro  gave  me ;  one  typical  of  those 
of  his  nationality  who  entertain  affection  for  an- 
other. He  came  from  one  side  of  his  studio  in 

114 


THE  RETURN  TO  ITALY 

the  direction  of  the  doorway,  his  thin,  white 
hair  brushed  back  from  his  brow  and  those 
piercing  eyes  of  his  denoting  an  unmistakable 
gleam. 

"  'Giovanni,'  he  exclaimed,  and  I  thought  I 
detected  the  suggestion  of  a  quaver  in  his  voice, 
'caro  mio.'  Then  the  dear  man  kissed  me  on 
both  cheeks.  But  he  was  no  happier  to  welcome 
me  than  I  was  to  see  him  again,  and  to  feel  his 
vigorous  hand-clasp  which  held  for  me  a  wealth 
of  meaning. 

"He  pushed  me  forcibly  into  a  chair,  plying 
me  with  questions  in  a  veritable  stream  of  Ital- 
ian which  came  too  fast  to  permit  immediate 
answering.  But  his  paramount  interest  was  in 
my  voice.  He  had  been,  once,  to  Liverpool  and 
more  often  than  I  could  count  had  averred  that 
it  had  taken  him  three  years  in  the  soft  air  of  his 
beloved  Italy  to  get  the  fog  and  chill  of  that 
Liverpool  atmosphere  from  his  throat. 

'  'Giovanni,'  he  would  say,  'how  is  it  that  you 
are  of  England,  yet  with  that  voice?'  And  my 
reply,  invariably,  would  in  substance  be,  'But, 
maestro,  England  is  not  Ireland  nor  Ireland  Eng- 
land.' Whereat  he  always  shook  his  head,  in  a 
slow  side  to  side  movement  as  if  unable  to  com- 

115 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

prehend  how  a  little  matter  in  distance  could 
make  such  a  difference. 

"On  this  particular  October  morning  Saba- 
tini  was  a  physical  and  mental  dynamo.  He 
shortly  had  me  standing  at  my  lesson,  with  his 
wife  at  the  piano.  He  was  a  source  of  wonder- 
ment to  me,  at  all  times,  and  that  three-quarters 
of  an  hour  disclosed  the  same  facility  of  that 
seventy-four-year-old  man  at  detecting  vocal 
flaws  and  the  same  astuteness  in  applying  cor- 
rective measures  which,  I  presume,  he  had  pos- 
sessed twenty  years  before.  I  likewise  shall 
never  forget  how  he  sang  for  me  'Salve  Dimore,' 
from  'Faust,'  with  an  evenness  of  scale  which  was 
a  revelation." 

It  was  on  a  muggy  July  morning  01  Nineteen 
Hundred  Eighteen,  in  New  York  City,  that  the 
tenor  related  to  me  the  facts  incorporated  in  the 
opening  pages  of  this  chapter.  Business  had 
brought  him  from  the  luxurious  coolness  of  Rock- 
lea  to  the  broiling  and  humid  heat  of  America's 
metropolis  at  the  height  of  summer,  and  Nature, 
man  and  beast  suffered.  We  sat  at  a  table  in 
the  grill  of  one  of  John's  clubs.  He  showed  the 
effects  of  his  previous  weeks  of  physical  train- 
ing and  diet,  of  normal  living  and  a  tranquil 

116 


THE  RETURN  TO  ITALY 

mind,  which  leave  their  unmistakable  marks. 
'  'Aida'  was  the  first  opera  I  heard  in  Italy," 
announced  the  tenor.  His  vision  was  not  for 
immediate  and  nearby  things ;  he  was  looking  far 
backwards,  and  from  the  upturned  quirk  of  his 
mouth  contemplating  pleasant  things.  "De 
Macchi  was  the  tenor,  Boninsegna  sang  Aida  and, 
I  think,  Stracciari  had  the  role  of  Amonasro." 

His  pause,  after  these  words,  was  such  that  I 
ventured  a  question.  "Was  the  performance  a 
good  one?" 

"Very,"  he  replied.  "It  had  the  fire  and 
life  which  Verdi  believed  'Aida'  required.  4I1 
Barbiere  di  Siviglia'  was  the  second  operatic 
work  I  listened  to  in  Milan;  in  La  Scala.  De 
Luca,  now  one  of  the  first  baritones  at  the  New 
York  Metropolitan,  Barrientos,  its  coloratura 
soprano,  and  Pini-Corsi,  a  former  Metropolitan 
buffo-basso  now  dead,  also  were  in  the  cast.  The 
tenor  was  Fernindo  De  Lucia,  a  glorious  artist. 
I  have  heard  and  seen  few  finer  presentations  of 
this  opera,  which  offers  a  wealth  of  vocal  oppor- 
tunity to  the  principals  who  are  given  that  op- 
portunity by  a  composer  who  did  not  rob  them  of 
it  through  covering  their  parts  with  unnecessarily 
heavy  orchestration — the  Frankenstein  of  mod- 

117 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

ern  operas  and  the  most  potent  cause  of  vocal 
wrecks  the  opera  singer  of  this  generation  has  to 
face." 

"And  Sabatini?  He  felt,  in  this  respect,  as 
you  feel?" 

"Assuredly,"  said  McCormack.  "Modern 
opera  was  a  thing  he  detested,  because  of  its  im- 
possible demands  upon  the  voice,  above  all  else. 
He  had  reasons,  and  good  ones,  you  may  believe. 
For  he  rightly  contended  that  the  human  singing 
voice  cannot  be  driven,  in  the  singer's  effort  to  be 
heard,  against  a  mass  of  orchestral  tone  without 
damage  to  the  vocal  instrument." 

The  tenor  was  interrupted  here  by  a  fellow 
club-member  insistent  upon  a  brief  visit  and  a 
discussion  on  the  war  and  other  topics  of  the  mo- 
ment. John  drifted  from  music  and  into  these 
non-related  subjects  with  interest,  and  showed 
his  grasp  of  each  to  be  that  of  an  educated, 
thoughtful  citizen,  broad  enough  to  consider  mat- 
ters outside  his  own  particular  sphere  of  profes- 
sional effort. 

"There  was  so  much  in  Milan  of  artistic  and 
historic  interest,"  resumed  McCormack,  "that  I 
never  lacked  for  an  occupation  of  benefit  to  me. 

118 


THE  RETURN  TO  ITALY 

Music,  of  course,  came  first,  yet  I  counted  litera- 
ture and  the  fine  arts  as  accompanying  essentials, 
and  I  seized  every  chance  to  extend  my  acquaint- 
ance with  them  all. 

"The  picture  gallery  of  Brera,  directly  oppo- 
site where  I  lived,  was  one  of  the  spots  where  I 
spent  much  time.  The  building  was  erected,  in 
1651,  as  a  Jesuit  college  and  continued  as  that 
until  the  year  of  American  independence.  At 
that  time  it  was  installed,  and  has  since  con- 
tinued, as  the  seat  of  the  Accademia  di  Belle  Arti ; 
and  within  the  gallery  may  be  found  the  re- 
nowned 'Sposalizio'  of  Raphael,  pictures  and 
frescoes  by  Ferrari,  Luini  and  Bramantino  as 
well  as  a  library  of  over  three  hundred  thousand 
volumes.  There  is  much  else  besides :  thousands 
of  rare  coins  and  a  splendid  observatory,  and 
art  works  by  those  masters  Paolo  Veronese, 
Moroni,  Bellini,  Bonifazio,  Paris  Bordone,  Cima 
da  Conegliano  and  others  of  their  time. 

"It  was  in  the  Brera  Gallery  that  my  instinc- 
tive taste  for  good  pictures  had  its  early  cultiva- 
tion. The  interpretation  of  a  song  is  but  the 
rearing  of  a  piece  of  musical  architecture;  and 
no  slight  help  is  to  be  found  in  the  study  of  good 

119 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

canvases,  wherein  the  eye  recognizes,  among 
other  outstanding  elements,  line  and  color  and 
form. 

"I  was  fond,  too,  of  looking  at  the  statue  of 
Leonardo  da  Vinci,  which  stands  in  the  Piazza 
della  Scala  within  a  stone's  toss  of  the  Teatro 
della  Scala — that  famous  opera-house  which  the 
world  knows  best  as  La  Scala.  Nor  could  I  keep 
away  from  the  nearby  Galleria  Vittorio  Eman- 
uele,  that  magnificent  arcade  in  the  form  of  a 
Latin  cross  with  its  octagonal  centre  which  is 
topped,  at  a  height  of  one  hundred  sixty  feet, 
with  a  glass  cupola. 

"The  parks  and  streets  were  my  inanimate 
friends,  and  I  would  wander  for  hours  at  a  time 
through  them — learning  a  lesson  or  relaxing  in 
the  artistic  stimulus  which  they  somehow  seemed 
to  reflect. 

"I  endeavored  conscientiously  to  waste  no 
time.  I  counted  well  the  value  of  a  day's  hours, 
and  they  were  never  quite  enough.  I  cannot  re- 
member that  Italy  was  a  playground  for  me,  un- 
less I  estimate  my  studies  as  that.  I  enjoyed 
them  enough,  it  is  true,  and  they  consumed  my 
waking  moments  rather  completely.  But  with 
student  celebrations  I  had  no  acquaintance,  for 

120 


THE  RETURN  TO  ITALY 

the  sufficient  reasons  of  lacking  money  and  super- 
fluous time.  My  musical  hay  had  to  be  made 
while  the  sun  shone,  and  there  was  no  guarantee 
that  it  might  not  suddenly  set.  It  threatened  to 
do  that,  by  the  way,  during  the  early  winter  of 
that  1905-1906  season,  and  would  have  done  so 
but  for  the  generosity  of  my  staunch  friend 
Bishop  Clancy,  of  Summerhill  College. 

"Friends,"  said  John,  "are  among  the  best 
things  of  life.  To  make  and  keep  them  has  been 
one  of  the  things  I  have  never  ceased  to  be  grate- 
ful for,  because  my  present  position  is  in  con- 
siderable measure  due  to  their  loyalty  and  re- 
sponsiveness to  various  personal  needs.  I  am 
convinced  of  that.  I've  not  turned  to  many  of 
these  friends,  it  is  true,  but  when  I  did  none  of 
them  refused  what  I  sought. 

"It  was  that  way  with  Bishop  Clancy.  My 
money  had  run  very  low,  and  I  began  to  worry. 
There  was  no  way  that  I  knew  to  earn  any,  in 
Milan,  with  such  resources  as  were  mine.  I  hesi- 
tated long  before  writing  Bishop  Clancy;  it  does 
not  come  easy  to  me  to  ask  for  assistance,  even 
such  assistance  as  I  feel  confident  I  may  repay 
at  a  given  time. 

"But,  after  days  of  reflection  on  the  matter,  I 
121 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

decided;  and  I  then  composed  a  letter  to  the 
Bishop,  explaining  my  need  for  fifty  pounds — if 
I  were  to  be  able  to  remain  in  Milan — and  asking 
him  to  lend  me  that  amount,  if  it  were  convenient. 
I  was  almost  sorry  when  I  let  the  letter  to  Bishop 
Clancy  slip  from  my  fingers  into  the  post-box. 
What  if  he  were  to  refuse?  My  youthful  mind 
held  a  swarm  of  conjectures,  and  I  fretted  until 
I  got  my  answer,  which,  when  I  held  it  unopened 
in  my  shaking  fingers,  I  scarcely  dared  read." 

"Yet  you  had  faith?" 

"Yes,"  answered  John,  "but  I  was  tormented 
with  a  questioning  of  having  done  the  right  thing. 
I  need  not  have  worried.  That  letter  from 
Bishop  Clancy  was  a  solace,  a  strengthener  that 
lifted  me  up  and  made  my  religion  a  more  ma- 
jestic thing  to  me  than  ever. 

"The  Bishop  wrote  that  he  was  glad  I  had 
asked  that  favor.  It  gave  him,  he  said,  a  great 
comfort  to  be  able  to  show  his  affection  for  me, 
and  his  confidence  in  my  future.  He  hadn't  by 
him  at  the  time,  the  full  fifty  pounds;  only 
twenty-five,  which  he  enclosed.  But  he  would 
send  the  remainder,  he  promised,  in  three 
months.  And  this  he  did." 

Bishop  Curley,  John's  boyhood  friend,  told 
122 


THE  RETURN  TO  ITALY 

me  something  of  this  incident.  The  tenor  had 
said  in  his  letter  that  he  would  return  the  loan 
in  three  years ;  and  in  three  years,  to  the  month, 
he  kept  his  word.  Also,  he  had  a  beautiful 
chalice  (made  with  Irish  amethysts  and  other 
gems)  which  he  presented  to  Bishop  Clancy. 
The  Bishop  died  in  1912,  which  took  from  John 
McCormack  a  real  friend,  but  that  same  chalice 
(which  Bishop  Clancy  left  in  his  will  to  Summer- 
hill  College,  McCormack's  alma  mater)  is  used 
each  day  in  the  mass  and  a  special  memento  al- 
ways is  said  for  the  donor. 

"With  my  mind  at  ease,"  continued  McCor- 
mack, "I  progressed  at  a  rapid  rate.  Each  day 
an  accompanist  came  to  me,  and  in  exchange  for 
one  franc  an  hour  played  through  those  operas 
I  was  learning  for  my  repertoire.  It  is  not  ex- 
pensive, in  Italy,  to  become  a  musician  if  one  will 
toil.  A  set  purpose  and  some  natural  ability 
appear  the  prerequisites.  By  this  time  I  read 
at  sight  rather  well,  and  I  was  always  a  good 
student.  So  the  repertoire  grew. 

"Sabatini's  patient  toil  with  me  seemed  also 
to  be  a  productive  affair.  He  never  tired.  He 
would  scold  me,  often,  when  I  was  timid  in  giving 
a  top  note  with  the  same  freedom  as  a  lower  one, 

123 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

and  then  he  would  call  to  me,  his  eyes  snapping: 
'Avanti,  Giovanni,  avanti!'  But  he  never  tired. 
For  he  was  more,  merely,  than  maestro;  he  was 
my  friend. 

"I  used  to  revel  in  those  walks  of  ours,  which 
now  and  again  took  us  to  the  Galleria — head- 
quarters for  musical-conductors,  singers,  arrived 
and  otherwise,  and  musical  agents — where  Saba- 
tini  would  be  met  with  salutations  on  all  sides. 
He  would  touch  up  my  Italian,  and  in  his  quaint 
and  courtly  fashion  command  his  Giovanni  to 
give  him  his  lesson  in  English.  And  then,  after 
our  stroll,  we  would  often  end  at  Sabatini's 
home  at  the  dinner  hour,  my  maestro  gently  in- 
sisting that  I  should  remain  to  eat  with  him  and 
his  wife.  I  always  was  glad  to  stop,  for  those 
were  treasure  hours — which  can  never  be  re- 
called. 

"And  one  December  day,  arriving  at  the  studio 
for  my  lesson,  Sabatini  eyed  me  covertly  from 
over  the  hand  that  pulled  at  his  thin,  silvery 
moustache.  I  sensed  that  he  was  up  to  some- 
thing ;  his  whole  manner  was  that  of  a  grown-up 
child  who  has  something  of  importance  to  im- 
part to  one  he  is  fond  of.  He  had  evidently 
planned  just  how  he  should  tell  me:  first,  to 

124 


THE  RETURN  TO  ITALY 

pique  my  interest  and,  thereafter,  compel  me  to 
guess  a  dozen  things,  and  finally  'give  it  up.' 

"He  is  ...  dead,  now — dear  soul !  And,  I 
know,  gone  to  his  deserved  reward.  But  I  can 
see  him,  as  plainly  as  though  it  happened  yester- 
day, standing  near  the  window  in  his  studio, 
playing  with  his  moustache  and  eyeing  me  like  a 
mischievous  schoolboy. 

'  'Giovanni!'  he  cried.  'There  is  news. 
Something  I  must  tell  to  you.'  Then  a  purpose- 
ful pause.  'I  wonder,  now;  had  I  better?'  as 
though  addressing  himself.  I  was  eager,  but  to 
please  him  I  pretended  to  be  half  frantic  with  sus- 
pense and  besought  him  to  speak  out.  Then, 
as  I  have  already  related,  he  insisted  that  I  guess, 
which  I  of  course  did,  while  he  watched  me  with 
evident  delight  at  withholding  the  news  which 
he  would  announce  when  I  was  bursting  with 
anxiety. 

"Finally,  according  to  the  prescribed  course  I 
would  follow,  I  announced  my  inability  to  cor- 
rectly read  his  mind.  Elated,  he  made  his  an- 
nouncement, much  as  though  promulgating  some 
order  of  state. 

"And  the  news  he  held  for  me  was  the  op- 
portunity for  an  audition  (which  was  equivalent 

125 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

to  an  engagement)  to  sing  in  seven  opera  per- 
formances in  the  Teatro  Chiabrera,  at  Savona,  a 
small  town  near  Genoa.  A  baritone  named 
Felici,  a  friend  of  Sabatini,  had  arranged  for  the 
engagement,  but  it  carried  no  fee.  All  I  could 
expect  to  get  from  it  were  such  experience  and 
glory  as  it  might  yield." 


126 


CHAPTER  IX 

CONCLUDING    STUDIES    IN    ITALY 

Our  seats  in  the  chair  car  of  the  late  afternoon 
express  train  were  in  the  extreme  rear,  isolated 
from  the  nearest  passengers,  which  permitted  us 
to  talk  uninterruptedly  and  without  fear  of  an- 
noying others.  Stamford  was  the  first  stop  and 
there  we  knew  that  Wilkinson  would  be  waiting, 
with  the  motor-car. 

"Don't  say  it's  hot,"  growled  John,  noting  I 
was  about  to  speak. 

"Why  not  sing  it,  then,  if  it  annoys  you  to 
talk?" 

"Just  for  that  I  wont  sing,  and  I  will  talk 
.  .  .  about  singing,  when  I  made  that  opera 
debut  at  Savona.  The  audition  went  satisfac- 
torily, and  Felici  closed  matters  with  the  theatre 
impresario.  So  I  went  to  the  boarding-house 
where  I  should  stop  while  rehearsing  and  singing 
my  seven  performances. 

"The  plan  called  for  my  singing  five  times  in 
127 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

Mascagni's  'L'Amico  Fritz'  and  twice  in  an  opera 
by  Dupont  called  'La  Cabrera.'  Preparations 
went  without  any  serious  trouble,  and  the  night 
at  length  came  for  the  opening  performance. 
'L'Amico  Fritz'  had  been  selected  by  the  im- 
presario and  those  of  us  who  were  to  appear  were 
anxious.  A  crowded  audience  was  assured  and 
when  the  curtain  rose  we  saw  that  it  was  on  hand, 
ready  to  applaud  or  condemn  according  as  it  was 
pleased  or  not. 

"I  was  certain  enough  of  my  singing,  but  the 
acting  part  of  my  role  was  on  my  mind.  In  those 
days  I  did  not  appreciate  what  repose  of  body 
means,  or  the  use  of  a  gesture  in  a  natural  way 
when  it  is  necessary  to  convey  something  to  an 
assemblage. 

"So  I  kept  my  arms  busily  employed  througn- 
out  the  opera,  one  set  of  gestures  in  particular 
causing  Felici  to  remark  after  the  performance: 
'Why,  Giovanni,  did  you  spread  out  both  arms  as 
though  making  some  present  to  the  people;  al- 
ways the  arms,  like  the  railroad  man's  signal.' 
It  was  good  advice  which  Felici  gave  and  I 
heeded  it.  But  what  I  think  is  more  interesting 
is  one  other  episode,  of  a  different  order. 

"I  sang  with  sufficient  assurance  and  every- 
128 


CONCLUDING  STUDIES  IN  ITALY 

thing  seemed  to  me  to  be  going  well  until  I  ap- 
proached a  point  in  the  opera  in  which  I  knew 
my  audience  would  want  from  a  certain  top  note 
plenty  of  noise.  I  hadn't  figured  it  out  before 
the  performance,  but  as  the  place  drew  nearer  I 
decided  suddenly,  as  we  should  say  nowadays,  to 
'camouflage'  that  particular  tone.  It  was  the  big 
aria  for  tenor  which  has  a  top  B-flat.  I  hadn't  a 
good  B-flat  then,  and  when  the  moment  came  to 
let  it  go  I  walked  to  the  footlights,  opened  my 
mouth  and  in  look  and  attitude  did  my  best  to 
give  an  imitation  of  a  tenor  ripping  out  a  ringing 
high  note — though  I  purposely  gave  forth  no 
sound. 

"As  true  as  I'm  sitting  here  I  got  a  round  of 
applause." 

"How  do  you  account  for  it?"  I  wanted  to 
know. 

"Nothing  but  the  audience's  imagination,"  re- 
plied John.  "The  people  thought  that  through 
the  orchestral  forte  they  were  hearing  what  they 
wanted  to  hear,  and  were  satisfied.  But  wait 
.  .  .  until  I  tell  the  sequel. 

"The  following  night  I  thought,  when  the 
moment  for  the  high  B-flat  approached,  Til  let 
them  have  it  this  time  with  the  voice.'  I  did, 

129 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

and — would  you  believe  it? — it  didn't  get  over, 
at  all.  The  reason  is  that  they  actually  heard 
the  tone,  which  hadn't  the  fibre  and  ring  their 
imaginations  had  allowed  them  to  fancy  was  there 
the  preceding  night." 

It  was  a  delicate  question,  yet  it  had  a  bearing 
upon  John's  career,  so  I  ventured  to  ask:  "You 
had  a  ...  success?" 

"I  shouldn't  call  it  that,"  he  answered,  and 
with  no  show  of  irritation  whatsoever.  "It  was, 
of  course,  nothing  like  what  the  Italians  term  a 
fiasco.  Still,  if  medals  had  been  awarded  I 
should  not  have  found  my  chest  completely  cov- 
ered with  them.  I  believe  it  would  be  within  the 
full  truth  to  say  that  I  was  mildly  'accepted.' 

"The  Italian  public,  however,  never  became 
enthusiastic  over  me.  Some  time  later — I'll  tell 
the  facts  at  the  proper  place — when  I  came  down 
from  England,  an  artist,  to  sing  a  brief  season 
at  the  San  Carlo,  in  Naples,  I  caused  no  furore. 
But  some  day,  when  the  War  is  over,  I  am  going 
back  to  Italy  to  sing  in  opera.  I  think  I'll  be 
ready  then  for  them,  and  I  hope  they'll  be  ready 
for  me." 

I  surmised  that  McCormack  would  drift  into 
130 


CONCLUDING  STUDIES  IN  ITALY 

recounting  his  concluding  Milan  student  days  be- 
fore our  train  passed  Greenwich.  He  had  fallen 
into  another  of  those  reflective  silences  of  his  as 
we  rushed  through  Larchmont;  it  held  into 
Mamaroneck;  showed  a  trace  of  awakening  as  the 
station  signs  of  Harrison  blurred  before  my  eyes, 
and  with  Rye  fading  behind  John  stirred  in  his 
seat. 

"Destroying  letters,"  he  remarked,  "is  some- 
times a  pity." 

"Some  kinds  of  letters,"  I  agreed. 

"Mine  were  that  kind,"  replied  the  tenor,  a 
pensive  touch  in  that  full-toned  speaking  voice  of 
his.  "I  used  to  write,  in  detail,  to  my  fiancee  of 
my  Milan  experiences:  my  thoughts  and  labors, 
everything,  I  believe,  which  happened  to  me  in 
which  she  would  be  interested.  And  in  some 
way,  shortly  before  our  marriage,  they  were  de- 
stroyed. I've  often  wished  I  had  them  now. 

"However — "  McCormack  is  somewhat  philo- 
sophical, and  he  turned  abruptly  from  this  sub- 
ject to  a  pleasanter  one — "Sabatini  welcomed 
me  back  from  Savona  and  wanted  to  know  my 
version  as  to  all  that  had  happened.  I  had  to 
tell  him  of  each  occurrence,  down  to  the  most 

131 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

insignificant  one,  and,  that  finished,  to  recapitu- 
late the  important  points,  with  care  for  complete- 
ness and  precision. 

"It  must  have  been  a  natural  feeling,  Saba- 
tini  had  only  a  few  pupils,  then.  He  was  an  old 
man,  as  I  have  said.  And  severe.  He  had  re- 
spect for  the  truth  only,  and  no  facility  (nor  in- 
clination in  that  direction,  either)  for  subterfuge. 
Things  he  didn't  mean  he  could  not  say,  or  act. 
He  was  a  plain  man — simple  and  honest.  It 
pleases  me  to  think  that  his  sympathies  were 
more  largely  for  me  than  any  other  pupil  he  had. 
Probably  he  considered  I  was  most  in  need  of 
them.  He  sat  in  his  arm-chair  as  I  talked  on, 
nodding  occasionally  and  clasping  and  unclasp- 
ing his  lean  fingers. 

'  'For  the  beginning,  Giovanni,  it  is  well — I 
think.'  I  saw  that  he  was  endeavoring  to  dissi- 
pate any  misgivings  I  entertained  as  to  the  lack 
of  real  success.  'The  start,  he  go  slow;  and  bye 
and  bye  he  pick  up.'  That  was  typical  of  the 
maestro.  To  build  slowly,  with  a  view  to  per- 
manency, was  his  creed  and  he  held  to  it  with  the 
tenacity  of  one  of  half  his  years. 

"After  the  Savona  debut,  which  was  in  Decem- 
ber of  Nineteen  Five,  I  progressed  rapidly. 

132 


CONCLUDING  STUDIES  IN  ITALY 

Those  appearances  put  something  into  my  sing- 
ing which  had  not  theretofore  been  present: 
a  degree  of  confidence  in  self  that  allowed  a 
broader  style,  a  greater  freedom  and  brought  its 
consequent  artistic  growth. 

"It  was  some  two  months  later  that  my  second 
opportunity  arrived  to  sing  in  opera,  this  time 
under  conditions  that  were  to  bring  me  money. 
Contracts  were  signed  for  ten  performances  of 
'Faust,'  for  a  fee  of  two  hundred  francs,  in  Santa 
Croce,  a  little  town  near  Florence.  But  it  was 
an  expensive  affair,  in  spite  of  what  I  got,  for  one 
hundred  and  sixty  francs  went  to  the  railway  com- 
pany which  took  me  from  Milan  to  my  destina- 
tion and  back.  But  I  had  my  appearances, 
under  the  name  of  Giovanni  Foli  (Italianizing 
my  name,  and  my  future  father-in-law's,  as  I  had 
also  done  for  the  Savona  engagement)  and  an  ex- 
perience that  has  induced  laughter  whenever  I 
have  since  recalled  the  incident. 

"The  soprano  was  an  attractive  young  woman, 
who  was  accompanied  by  her  mother.  I  had 
found  time  to  wander  about  Santa  Croce,  and  as 
my  bump  of  location  is  well  developed  I  learned 
the  direction  of  those  spots  about  the  theatre,  and 
the  boarding-house  where  we  stopped,  Listen, 

133 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

now,  to  this;  it's  the  one  adventure  of  the  kind 
in  my  experience. 

"We  had  finished  a  rehearsal.  As  I  came  out- 
side the  theatre  I  met  the  soprano  and  her  mother, 
evidently  confused  as  to  the  way  to  the  boarding- 
house  and  hesitating  to  walk  that  way  unescorted. 
A  vehicle — one  of  the  closed  sort  one  finds  in 
that  part  of  Italy — drove  along  the  street  at  that 
moment,  and  I  hailed  it  and  invited  the  two  ladies 
to  accompany  me  in  it  to  the  place,  which  was 
presided  over  by  the  impresario's  wife,  whom  I 
shall  never  forget  as  a  remarkable  cook. 

"I  did  not  like  the  looks  of  the  driver.  Sour- 
visaged,  he  was,  with  shaggy  brows ;  a  brigandish 
looking  fellow,  who  might  have  graduated  from 
the  country  into  a  village,  or,  possibly,  have  been 
on  vacation.  I  put  the  soprano  and  her  mother 
into  the  vehicle,  and  followed  them. 

"There  was  conversation  about  the  rehearsal 
and  we  drove  on.  But  when  we  came  to  a  cer- 
tain spot  I  observed  the  driver  turned  to  his  left 
instead  of  going  to  the  right,  which  I  remembered 
was  the  way  to  our  home.  I  had  not  missed, 
either,  I  might  add,  a  few  moments  before  the 
turn,  seeing  a  man  climb  up  and  on  to  the  back 
of  our  carriage.  I  was  instantly  suspicious,  for 

134 


CONCLUDING  STUDIES  IN  ITALY 

it  was  growing  dark  and  the  driver's  reply  to  my 
order  to  go  the  other  way  brought  a  surly  response. 
'The  hotel's  to  the  right,  not  the  direction 
you're  taking,'  I  said.  I  leaned  out  of  the  car- 
riage window,  and  glared  at  the  fellow.  And 
looking  rearwards  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  sus- 
picious passenger  perched  on  our  back  axle. 

'  'No,  signor,'  retorted  our  driver,  'the  hotel 
is  the  way  I  am  going.     Just  a  different  route.' 
'Well,  you  go  the  way  I  tell  you,  or — ' ' 

"Well,"  I  said,  a  trifle  impatiently  perhaps, 
"go  on.  Don't  stop  in  the  middle  of  it.  I  sup- 
pose you  drew  your  trusty  pistol." 

John  grinned.  "You  guessed  it.  I  did, — a 
nickel-plated  thirty-two-calibre  peanut  shooter." 

"You,  a  tenor,  packing  a  gun?"  I  was  aston- 
ished; but  I  saw  that  McCormack  was  not  exag- 
gerating. He  was  in  dead  earnest. 

"A  foolish  kid-notion,"  he  admitted,  "but  it 
worked.  I  always  carried  the  thing  about;  and 
when  I  shoved  it  outside  the  window  and  issued 
orders  the  driver  wheeled  as  I  desired — and  I 
noticed  the  man  behind  drop  off  and  disappear 
in  the  dusk. 

"But  I  was  shaking  all  over.  If  those 
brigands — and  I've  no  doubt  they  were  that — 

135 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

had  put  up  a  fight  I  should  probably  have  been 
whipped." 

"February  and  March  slipped  by  and  April 
brought  the  flowers  of  spring  and  that  balminess 
of  air  which  makes  Milan  a  place  of  joy  at  that 
time  of  year.  I  was  disturbed  for  the  immediate 
future,  for  again  my  funds  were  below  the  mark 
of  safety.  But  vocally  I  seemed  to  be  on  solid 
earth. 

"My  high  tones  at  last  were  coming  with  free- 
dom and  had  the  quality  corresponding  to  those 
in  the  lower  part  of  the  voice.  And  that  elusive, 
to  me,  mezza-voce  seemed  well-nigh  conquered. 
Musically  I  was  well  along  and  the  repertoire  one 
of  respectable  proportions.  In  a  year  my  ad- 
vancement had  been  rather  remarkable;  so,  at 
any  rate,  it  appeared,  and  others  besides  Saba- 
tini  spoke  of  this — which  came  back  to  me  by 
roundabout  courses. 

"What  it  had  usually  taken  others  much  longer 
to  acquire  had  been  given  me  quickly.  Yet  an 
operatic  career  (so  far  as  Italy  might  be  intro- 
duced into  it)  did  not  loom  upon  the  immediate 
horizon  with  any  significant  glow." 

John  lapsed  into  silence  again,  looked  out  of 
the  window,  and  back  at  me.  "Stamford,"  he 

136 


CONCLUDING  STUDIES  IN  ITALY 

said.  We  picked  up  our  hats  and  walked  for- 
ward and  out  to  the  car  platform  as  the  train  drew 
into  the  station  and  stopped.  The  machine  was 
purring  along  the  Boston  Post  Road  before  Mc- 
Cormack  returned  to  his  subject. 

"Somewhere,"  he  remarked,  "there  was 
started  a  story  that  Sabatini  demanded  his  tui- 
tion in  advance.  That's  an  error.  He  never, 
at  any  time  during  my  study  with  him,  mentioned 
in  that  connection  the  word  'money'  to  me.  And 
it  was  some  time  after  I  left  Milan,  in  May,  Nine- 
teen Six,  that  I  was  able  to  hand  him  the  forty 
dollars  I  owed  him  for  those  last  two  months 
when  I  was  on  my  way  from  London  to  sing  at  the 
San  Carlo,  in  Naples. 

"When  I  went  to  him  with  my  financial 
troubles  he  smiled  in  his  fatherly  way,  saying: 
'You  shall  not  worry,  Giovanni,  about  that  small 
sum.  One  day,  when  it  is  convenient,  you  will 
send  him  to  me.'  He  regarded  me  as  a  son ;  and 
I  well  remember  his  greeting  a  day  when  I  ar- 
rived in  Milan  from  London,  March,  1909,  an 
arrival  on  a  train  which  also  carried  Sabatini's 
own  son  into  the  station. 

"We  came  down  the  station  platform,  very 
near  together,  with  young  Sabatini  slightly  in 

137 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

advance.  His  father  shook  hands  with  him, 
nothing  more.  Then  he  walked  on,  to  me,  and 
kissed  me  on  both  cheeks. 

"He  understood  me,"  explained  McCormack. 
"That,  unquestionably,  was  one  of  the  causes  of 
his  moulding  my  voice  as  he  did,  and  of  guiding 
me  in  my  interpretations  of  the  opera  roles  I 
learned.  He  would  say  to  me:  'Crescendo 
here,  Giovanni,  to  secure  the  effect  we  want' ;  or 
'Some  more  emphasis  to  that  phrase' ;  or  'Do  not 
hurry  it.'  He  knew  the  finishing  touches  re- 
quired. Yet  he  was  insistent  that  I  put  into  each 
interpretation  the  individuality  of  my  own  con- 
ception. He  liked  the  artist  to  'give  and  take'  in 
his  own  way,  here  and  there,  as  seemed  to  him 
necessary. 

"I  left  Sabatini,  on  the  morning  I  started 
back  to  Ireland,  standing  at  the  door  of  his  studio 
and  waving  me  a  farewell.  It  marked  the  con- 
clusion of  my  formal  studies  with  him,  not  the 
end  of  our  friendship,  for  he  lived  eight  years 
longer,  long  enough  to  allow  me  to  be  able  to 
send  him  more  pupils  than  he  could  find  time  to 
accept." 

The  machine  stopped  at  the  McCormack  door 
and  we  got  out  and  went  into  the  house. 

138 


John  McCormack  at  the  New  York  Hippodrome,  April  28,   1918,  singing  to  the 
this  occasion  numbered  more  than  seven  thousand  persons,  one  thous 
This  amount   was   surpassed  a  few  months  later,  he 
Mi.  McCormack  for  '•  The  Fighting  Si> 


iience  ever  seen  in  "America's  greatest  playhouse."       The  audience  on 
ang  seated  on  the  stage.     The  receipts  approximated  £34,00000. 

same  theatre,  when   at    the  concert    by 
inth,"  the  receipts  reached  $45,000.00 


CHAPTER  X 

FIGHTING    FOR   A    START 

A  storm  broke  before  the  dinner  hour  passed ; 
an  old-fashioned  storm  with  lightning  and  crack- 
ling thunder-peals  that  reverberated  from  ear- 
splitting  sonority  into  decrescendi  that  carry 
them  off,  fainter  and  fainter,  into  vast  distance. 
The  rain  fell  fast,  and  whipped  by  the  gusts 
against  the  window-panes  made  eerie  sounds. 
Inside  Rocklea  we  were  snug  enough.  Over  the 
coffee  the  fury  of  the  elements  heightened,  if 
anything,  that  feeling  of  content  which  comes  to 
a  healthy  person  after  having  dined  well. 

Cyril  McCormack  was  leaning  in  the  hollow  of 
his  mother's  arm,  and  half  against  the  chair,  talk- 
ing to  her  in  an  affectionately  manly  way. 
Gwenny  sat  in  her  father's  lap,  her  cheek  against 
his,  one  hand  fondling  his  neck;  but  her  drooping 
lids  forecast  the  sand-man's  coming.  The  rest 
of  us — Miss  Foley,  Edwin  Schneider  (one  of  the 

139 


FIGHTING  FOR  A  START 

family,  almost)  and  I — sat  variously  about,  in 
good  humor. 

Wanting  to  smoke,  and  write  a  bit,  I  disap- 
peared after  a  time  in  the  direction  of  that  re- 
mote study  referred  to  in  an  earlier  chapter. 
From  the  higher  windows  a  better  view  of  the 
Sound  was  to  be  had.  I  peered,  as  well  as  the 
driving  rain  would  allow,  to  see  what  the  waters 
were  doing,  but  nothing  more  than  veils  of  spray 
from  waves  dashing  against  the  pier  was  my 
reward. 

So  I  went  to  the  desk  and  work. 

It  was  a  night  either  for  early  retiring  or  late 
sitting-up  and  the  former  evidently  must  have 
been  the  majority  verdict  in  the  McCormack  fam- 
ily ;  for  I  had  not  been  busy  half  an  hour  before 
John  strolled  in  to  announce  himself  the  sole 
survivor,  and  talkatively  inclined. 

I  invited  him  to  one  of  his  own  chairs  and 
pushed  back  from  the  desk  to  face  him. 

"If  I  were  a  painter,"  began  the  tenor,  "such 
a  storm  would  send  me  with  tubes  and  brush  to 
my  easel.  I  shouldn't  have  to  see  it  in  detail, 
either.  What  the  darkness  reveals  would  be 
enough.  My  imagination  could  do  the  rest." 

"Then  it  suggests  something  to  you?"  I  asked. 
140 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

John  acquiesced.  "Those  first  days  in  Dub- 
lin, when  I  arrived  there  from  Italy  after  the 
death  of  my  second  father,  Patrick  Foley.  Some 
great  prop  seemed  all  at  once  to  have  been  re- 
moved from  the  world,  which  loomed  vaguely 
larger  and  more  threatening  to  my  youthful 
mind.  A  sort  of  cold  solemnity  seemed  upon 
everything,  as  though  the  world  itself  were  a 
personality  that  looked  with  disinterested  ques- 
tioning upon  me,  as  if  to  say:  'And  what,  pray, 
will  you  do  now?'  It  was  very  much  that  way; 
and  this  night  is  a  reminder. 

"I  feel,  as  you  know,"  said  the  tenor,  "rather 
deeply.  During  those  days  that  dragged  on 
after  my  return  I  could  not  set  myself  to  any- 
thing. Something  seemed  to  have  been  removed 
from  my  being.  I  slept  badly  and  had  no  appe- 
tite and  could  not  concentrate.  Over  the  whole 
of  me  was  an  uncontrollable  desire  to  fold  up  and 
lie  down. 

"Of  course,  that  sort  of  thing  could  not  be  per- 
mitted to  go  on  indefinitely.  The  fact  revealed 
itself  one  morning  as  I  arose.  So  I  summoned 
a  resolute  manner,  squelched  as  well  as  I  was  able 
the  dejection  within  me  and  went  out  of  the 
house  in  quest  of  work.  If  effort  would  count, 

141 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

I  argued,  I  should  have  no  self-accusation;  and 
the  following  week  was  one  of  sufficient  activity, 
so  far  as  I  was  concerned. 

"In  the  evenings  I  saw  Miss  Foley,  my  fiancee, 
and  together  we  would  review  the  sum  of  the 
day's  accomplishments.  She  had,  besides  her 
own  qualities  of  appeal  to  me,  her  father's  astute- 
ness of  mind.  I  think  we  began  to  see  how 
necessary  each  was  to  the  other.  For  myself,  I 
was  endeavoring  constantly  to  escape  answering 
in  my  own  mind  an  internally  voiced  question 
which  I  never  allowed  to  be  fully  put.  But  I 
knew,  without  practising  self-deception,  what  it 
was.  I  wanted  to  make  Miss  Foley  Mrs.  Mc- 
Cormack. 

"But  there  was  the  important  matter  of  earn- 
ing capacity  to  be  faced. 

"It  was  when  I  was  in  one  of  these  moods  that 
I  met  Tom  Bissette,  Miss  Foley's  brother-in-law, 
and  confided  my  trouble  to  him.  I  asked  what 
he  thought  about  my  reflection  upon  the  wisdom 
of  marriage  at  such  a  time. 

'The  best  thing  for  you  both,'  he  promptly 
replied.  'So  far  as  I  can  see  nothing  can  be 
gained  by  waiting.  There  may  be  hardship  for 
awhile,  but  what's  that  to  a  man  of  courage?  I 

142 


FIGHTING  FOR  A  START 

have  confidence  in  you,  Mac,'  he  averred;  'you 
will  make  a  career,  and  money.  And  if  you 
want  to  marry  Lily,  go  ahead.' 

"Can  you  fancy  what  a  tonic  such  advice  was 
to  me?"  asked  John,  but  he  allowed  me  no  reply. 
He  went  right  on.  "I  hurried  to  Miss  Foley  by 
the  shortest  route,  and  told  her  I  thought  we 
shouldn't  delay  our  wedding  any  longer.  She 
listened  smilingly,  while  I  argued  on.  I  dare- 
say I  was  agitated.  When  I  at  length  paused  for 
breath,  and  to  survey  her  reception  of  my  pre- 
sumably unexpected  announcement,  she  calmly 
rejoined:  'I  think  so  too,  John.' 

"After  that  our  sole  thought  was  of  the  wed- 
ding, and  to  hasten  it.  I  wrote  the  family,  in 
Athlone,  and  received  the  approbation  of  my 
father  and  mother  with  assurances  that  they 
would  be  with  us  on  the  appointed  date,  if  at  all 
possible. 

"At  last  my  heart's  desire  was  to  be  realized. 
Singing  took  a  back  seat  during  those  prepara- 
tory days  for  the  ceremony — except  for  the  desul- 
tory phrases  I  sang  for  the  joy  of  the  approach- 
ing happiest  hour  of  my  h'fe.  Lily  brightened, 
too,  and  bloomed. 

"The  Foley  family  was  prominent  in  Dublin, 
143 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

and  the  announcement  of  her  coming  marriage 
to  me  on  July  second,  Nineteen  Six,  was  not 
without  its  community  interest.  And  on  that 
day,  at  7  o'clock  in  the  morning,  Lily  Foley  and 
I  were  united  in  the  Marlborough  Street  Cathe- 
dral, in  Dublin,  and  left  for  London  at  8:30  the 
same  morning. 

"We  should  have  enjoyed  a  lengthy  honey- 
moon, but — we  decided  it  out  of  fashion.  So 
we  contented  ourselves  with  a  trip  to  London, 
where  we  prowled  delightedly  about,  two  happy 
youngsters  with  an  abiding  faith  in  things. 

"But  the  McCormack  exchequer  was  by  no 
means  in  a  corpulent  state,  and  it  was  not  long 
before  I  realized  that  something  must  be  done 
to  keep  the  wolf  from  the  garage." 

"You  mean  the  one  where  you  kept  your  Rolls- 
Royce?" 

"Yes,"  said  John  with  a  grin.  "Well,  I  was 
seized  with  a  bright  idea.  When  I  had  made  my 
twenty-five  records  of  songs  for  the  Gramophone 
Company  you  will  recall  that  the  contract  stipu- 
lated I  should  not  be  asked  to  do  over  any  record 
which  chanced  to  be  slightly  imperfect.  Re- 
membering this,  it  occurred  to  me  to  go  to  the 
Gramophone  people  and  suggest  doing  over  any, 

144 


FIGHTING  FOR  A  START 

or  every,  record.  I  was,  of  course,  a  better  artist 
than  when  these  songs  had  been  sung,  and  I  be- 
lieved that  some  advertising  of  my  return  from 
Italy  would  stimulate  their  sale." 

"Not  a  bad  idea,"  I  commented. 

"Humph!"  said  McCormack.  "You  think 
so?" 

"Didn't  the  Gramophone  manager?" 

"He  did  not.  What  do  you  suppose  he  said? 
That  any  records  I  might  make  would  be  useless 
to  him. 

"But,"  remarked  John,  with  the  flicker  of  a 
smile  about  his  mouth,  "that  company  has  since 
paid  me — let  me  see — yes,  it  has  paid  me  in 
royalties,  for  records  I  afterward  made,  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  thousand  dollars.  My  secondary 
proposition,  when  Mrs.  McCormack  and  I  were  in 
London,  at  the  end  of  our  honeymoon,  was  to 
sing  ten  records  for  ten  pounds  apiece.  They 
might  have  acquired  sole  possession  of  them  at 
that  price,  and  have  had  no  obligation  to  pay  me 
a  dollar  of  royalties. 

"Of  course,  at  the  time,  the  refusal  was  a  blow. 
Yet  it  did  not  propel  me  into  the  state  of  dejec- 
tion which  many  might  assume  would  have  fol- 
lowed. I  have  the  artist  nature,  but  none  of  the 

145 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

tendency  towards  abrupt  discouragement  which 
that  nature  is  presumed  to  have  in  the  face  of 
obstacles. 

"My  faith  never  really  wavered,  and  a  natural 
optimism  buoyed  me.  And  Mrs.  McCormack 
was  a  brave  little  soul,  a  true  wife  who  stood  up 
bravely  under  all  adversity  with  never  a  word 
of  complaint. 

"So  I  made  the  rounds  of  concert  agency  offi- 
ces, getting  a  few  insignificant  engagements 
which  paid  little.  More,  much  more.,  than  I 
could  earn  we  were  spending  for  actual  living  ex- 
penses; and  the  small  sum  I  had  had  when  we 
were  married  was  nearly  gone." 

I  should  like,  here,  to  interject  what  Michael 
Keane  told  me  of  those  McCormack  struggles 
during  my  talk  with  him  in  his  New  York  of- 
fice. 

"Shortly  after  McCormack  came  to  London, 
upon  finishing  his  studies  in  Italy,  he  made  a 
contract  with  a  London  agent.  The  boy  was 
inexperienced  in  the  ways  of  business,  and  being 
generous  himself  he  did  not  question  the  equity 
of  any  contract  which  might  be  drawn  for  him  to 
sign.  But  this  agent  did  not  succeed  in  getting 
him  any  really  serious  engagements. 

146 


FIGHTING  FOR  A  START 

"Some  idea  of  the  character  of  this  contract 
may  be  gathered  from  the  fact  that  it  was  for  the 
duration  of  McCormack's  life.  Fancy  such  an 
arrangement.  Of  course  it  couldn't  last.  Yet 
the  cancellation  of  that  document  cost  the  tenor, 
years  afterward,  ten  thousand  dollars." 

Mr.  Keane  had  additional  information  of  Mc- 
Cormack's experiences  during  those  London 
days,  all  of  which  will  be  duly  set  down  in  the 
proper  places. 

"It  was  at  this  time  that  chance  brought  me, 
again,  into  communication  with  the  Moody-Man- 
ners Opera  Company,"  resumed  McCormack. 
"At  the  request  of  Charles  Manners  I  sang  an 
audition  for  him,  and  he  was  pleased.  'If  you 
could  only  act  as  well  as  you  sing,'  he  mused, 
'I'd  give  you  twenty  pounds  a  week.'  This 
brought  a  retort  such  as  I  had  made,  in  an  almost 
similar  way,  before — that  if  I  could  act  it  would 
be  Covent  Garden  I  would  seek,  instead  of  a  posi- 
tion with  his  company. 

"London  having  shown  slight  signs  of  imme- 
diately warming  to  me,"  remarked  McCormack, 
"we  thought  Italy  might  offer  some  operatic 
chance.  A  consultation  in  the  John  McCormack 
family  ensued,  and  the  board  of  directors — con- 

147 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

sisting  of  Mrs.  McCormack  and  myself — voted 
unanimously  to  make  the  journey  to  Milan,  and, 
if  necessary,  to  any  other  cities  where  possible 
engagements  might  be  lurking." 

Here  the  tenor  got  up,  to  go  to  the  window. 
The  rain  still  beat  fiercely  against  the  glass, 
driven  by  the  wind  which  we  could  hear  howling 
like  a  soul  in  anguish.  I  followed,  to  get  the 
kinks  out  of  my  legs.  A  single  flash  of  lightning 
made  bright  for  a  moment  the  terraced  lawn  and 
the  leaping  waters  of  the  Sound. 

"I  had  no  more  chance  in  Italy,"  remarked  the 
tenor,  "than  a  man  would  have  trying  to  swim  in 
that  surf.  I  sang  audition  after  audition;  and 
opera-house  managers  listened,  and  passed  me 
on.  But  auditions  are  not  a  fair  criterion  and 
my  nerves  never  allowed  me  to  do  myself  justice 
by  them. 

"We  hadn't  been  long  back  in  our  small  quar- 
ters in  London  before  Fortune  permitted  herself 
to  smile,  just  a  little,  upon  us.  I  was  desperate, 
willing  enough  to  take  anything  which  would 
pay  at  all.  Through  an  agent  I  secured  an  en- 
gagement to  sing  at  Queen's  Hotel,  in  Leicester 
Square — for  a  guinea.  It  was  not  cabaret,  as 

148 


FIGHTING  FOR  A  START 

it  has  been  said  to  be,  but  the  appearance  was  in- 
consequential and  meant  nothing  more  than  the 
five  dollars  I  received. 

"Other  engagements,  at  different  hotels,  were 
offered  me  and  gladly  accepted.  All  the  while  I 
studied  at  home,  and  practised  rigidly  and  sought 
to  preserve  a  tranquil  mind  and  an  unwavering 
heart.  But  it  wasn't  easy.  I  began,  during 
those  dark  days,  to  ask  myself  if  I  had  not  been 
ungenerous  in  asking  the  woman  I  loved  to  share 
with  me  those  troublous  times;  it  was  difficult 
enough  for  a  man. 

"Then,  one  morning,  an  agent  informed  me 
he  had  arranged  for  me  to  appear  as  assisting 
artist  to  Camille  Clifford,  the  original  Gibson 
girl,  and  though  the  fee  was  only  one  guinea  I 
jumped,  as  one  will  say,  at  the  chance.  That 
engagement  led  to  others  of  the  same  kind,  each 
one  yielding  approximately  the  same  compensa- 
tion and  very  little  honor. 

"Nevertheless,  I  would  not  have  missed  for  a 
great  deal  the  experience  these  appearances  as 
assisting  artist  taught.  I  was,  at  any  rate,  be- 
coming more  at  ease  before  an  audience  and  prac- 
tising in  publi;  the  things  which  I  had  learned 

149 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

in  the  studio  and  which,  really,  are  never  fixed  in 
a  singer's  equipment  until  they  have  been  utilized 
over  and  over  again  before  many  listeners,  pre- 
sumably critical. 

"One  of  these  singers  whom  I  assisted,  auring 
that  part  of  Nineteen  Six,  was  Edna  May.  I 
know  that  she  is  generally  regarded  as  a  comic 
opera  star — or  was,  in  her  period  of  success — 
whose  beauty  and  charm  constituted  her  chief  at- 
tributes of  appeal.  At  the  same  time,  I  found 
her  voice  an  excellent  one  and  her  ability  as  a 
singer  distinctly  above  the  average. 

"It  was  a  struggle,  especially  during  those  hot 
August  days  that  leave  one  physically  limp  at 
their  close  and  scarcely  in  the  mood  to  be  cheery 
and  bright,  a  struggle  that  went  on  during  the 
fall  and  winter,  into  the  next  spring.  But  Mrs. 
McCormack  and  I  kept  up,  nevertheless.  To- 
gether we  would  plan  for  the  future  with  as  much 
fortitude — and  confidence,  too — as  though  the 
ultimate  outcome  were  assured. 

'You  are  destined  to  win,  John,'  Mrs.  Mc- 
Cormack would  reiterate,  and  I  believed  that  she 
spoke  the  truth. 

"How  close  she  was  to  it  we  neither  of  us  then 
knew.  I  think  it  was  the  consciousness  of  our 

150 


FIGHTING  FOR  A  START 

doing  all  that  we  could  do 'that  kept  our  faith 
staunch.  But  better  days  were  not  far  distant, 
and  in  March,  1907,  there  emerged  from  the 
glowering  sky  a  ray  of  promise." 


151 


CHAPTER  XI 


LONDON'S  EARLY  REWARDS 


McCormack  had  been  standing  at  the  study 
window  during  the  closing  part  of  his  descrip- 
tion of  those  trying  London  days.  There 
seemed,  in  the  storm  outside,  something  which 
held  and  fascinated  him;  a  similarity,  perhaps, 
in  the  rain  and  wind  and  lightning,  with  inter- 
mittent thunder-claps,  to  the  forces  which  op- 
posed him  when  he  and  his  girl-wife  faced  to- 
gether the  privations  which  the  young  seem  best 
able  to  endure. 

"I  had  met  in  the  course  of  my  London  trav- 
els," said  John,  "a  professor  of  singing  in  the 
Royal  College  of  Music — Albert  Vesetti.  He 
had  been  accompanist  to  Adelina  Patti,  and  on 
several  occasions  he  had  heard  me  sing  and  liked 
my  voice.  There  were  others,  too,  whom  I 
formed  acquaintance  with,  Charles  Marshall, 
composer  of  'I  Hear  You  Calling,'  who  had 
played  for  me  at  small  concerts,  being  one  of 
these.  But  Vesetti  had  influence,  and  after  one 

152 


LONDON'S  EARLY  REWARDS 

of  my  most  satisfactory  appearances  he  offered  to 
write  a  letter  of  introduction  for  me  to  Willie 
Boosey,  who  was  an  executive  in  the  music  pub- 
lishing house  of  Chappell  and  Company,  and 
another  letter  to  Arthur  Boosey,  of  Boosey  and 
Company.  These  men  were  first  cousins,  but 
that  did  not  prevent  their  being  business  rivals. 
It  was  a  gracious  act,  and  I  accepted  the  letters 
with  every  appreciation  of  the  motive  prompting 
it. 

"Somehow,  however,  I  was  evidently  not  in- 
tended at  that  particular  time,  to  meet  Willie 
Boosey.  I  sent  word  in  by  a  clerk  that  I  had  a 
letter  from  Vesetti,  and  was  informed  that  Mr. 
Boosey  would  see  me  in  a  few  minutes,  and  would 
I  wait.  I  did.  For  over  an  hour  I  sat  patiently, 
until  patience  became  worn  to  the  bone. 

"I  thereupon — though  precisely  why  I  am 
unable  to  fathom — went  from  Chappell's  to 
Arthur  Boosey.  But  instead  of  waiting  there, 
as  I  had  done  in  the  first  instance,  I  sent  my  letter 
up  to  Arthur  Boosey  and  left  the  place.  So 
when  I  was  sought  to  be  taken  to  this  gentleman 
I  was  nowhere  about. 

"This  circumstance  appeared  to  amuse  Arthur 
Boosey,  for  at  his  next  meeting  with  Vesetti  he 

153 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

remarked :  'That  was  a  strange  young  man  you 
sent  to  me.  He  never  even  waited  to  learn 
whether  I  could  see  him.  Have  him  call  round 
again.' 

"Now  Arthur  Boosey  was  in  control  of  the 
Boosey  Ballad  Concerts,  which  formed  an  im- 
portant part  of  London's  musical  offerings,  and 
Vesetti  had  told  me  that  if  I  appeared  success- 
fully in  one  of  them  my  opportunities  might  be 
many  and  profitable.  He  was  amused  at  Arthur 
Boosey 's  account  of  my  call,  and  appeared  to 
understand  that  I  had  not  remained,  after  de- 
livering his  introductory  letter,  for  fear  of  annoy- 
ing the  distinguished  Boosey. 

'  'Never  mind,'  consoled  Vesetti,  'go  again; 
and  this  time  stay  until  you  meet  him.' 

"I  found  Arthur  Boosey  a  kindly  man,  with  an 
understanding  of  human  nature  and  a  sympathy 
for  struggling  young  singers — providing  they  dis- 
played potentialities.  His  faith  in  Vesetti's 
judgment  was  confirmed,  after  he  had  heard  me 
sing,  and  inviting  me  to  return  to  his  office  we  sat 
down  to  talk  business. 

'  'How  would  you  like  to  sing  at  my  next 
ballad  concert?'  he  asked,  after  our  introductory 
talk.  You  can  guess  my  reply.  'Will  three 

154 


LONDON'S  EARLY  REWARDS 

guineas  be  enough?'  I  replied,  'Yes,  plenty.' 
Whereupon  the  arrangements  were  concluded, 
and  I  departed  to  prepare  for  the  most  auspicious 
London  appearance  which  had  thus  far  offered. 
"Mrs.  McCormack  was  excited  when  I  brought 
her  the  news.  'It  will  make  you,'  she  declared. 
So  I  got  ready  for  the  concert,  working  the 
'Questa  'o  Quella  aria  from  'Rigoletto,'  and  the 
other  works  I  had  chosen  as  nearly  perfect  in 
those  respects  I  desired.  Samuel  Liddle,  who 
was  the  official  Boosey  Ballad  Concerts  accom- 
panist, and  who  had  played  for  me  when  I  sang 
Stephen  Adams's  'Nirvana'  for  Arthur  Boosey, 
gave  me  a  suggestion,  at  this  time,  which  turned 
out  amazingly  well. 

'What  you  ought  to  do,  Mac,'  he  advised,  'is 
to  find  some  new  ballad  that  just  suits  you,  and 
introduce  it  at  the  first  concert.' 

"  'Fine,'  I  replied,  'if  I  could  find  the  ballad.' 
"At  this  Liddle  dug  out  a  piece  of  manuscript 
from  his  desk,  went  over  to  the  piano  and  began 
to  play  it.  The  song  was  called  'A  Farewell,' 
and  had  been  set  by  Liddle  himself  to  words  by 
Charles  Kingsley.  I  saw  that  it  had  possibili- 
ties, and  after  I  had  tried  it  over — which  I  did 
then  and  there — I  found  that  it  suited  my  voice  so 

155 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

well  that  I  decided,  immediately,  to  use  it  at  my 
ballad  concert  debut. 

To  many  readers  of  this  book  an  English  bal- 
lad concert  is  an  institution  whose  functions  are 
understood;  but  to  those  unfamiliar  with  the 
Boosey  Ballad  Concerts  it  must  be  explained  that 
more  than  one  singer  rose  or  fell  through  them. 
They  were  held  in  Queen's  Hall  (until  a  few 
years  ago,  when  circumstances  that  need  not  be 
related  here  caused  their  transfer  to  Albert  Hall) , 
on  Saturday  afternoons,  and  were  attended  by  the 
smartest  of  London  folk  as  well  as  by  the  masses. 
Musicians  of  position  always  attended,  because 
there  often  appeared  some  distinguished  pianist 
or  violinist — in  addition  to  the  half-dozen  or 
more  singers  who  carried  the  main  part  of  a 
programme. 

It  was  not  unusual  for  the  London  Symphony 
Society  patrons  to  purchase  seats  for  a  symphony 
concert  at  Queen's  Hall  box-office,  and  at 
the  same  time  obtain  tickets  for  the  approach- 
ing ballad  concert.  Established  artists  always 
found  admirers  there  to  greet  them,  and  these 
connoisseurs — amateur  and  professional — in- 
clined invariably  a  listening  ear  for  the  new- 
comer, and  a  critical  ear  it  was. 

156 


LONDON'S  EARLY  REWARDS 

"I  will  not  intimate  that  all  my  eggs  were  in 
one  basket,"  observed  McCormack.  "But  .  .  . 
I  knew  what  it  would  mean  if  I  created  any  im- 
pression short  of  the  exceptional.  'Getting  by,' 
as  we  say,  would  never  do.  It  had  to  be  some- 
thing of  an  emphatic  nature;  the  accomplish- 
ment of  enough  to  set  talking  those  whose  opin- 
ions carried  weight. 

"I  arrived  early  at  my  dressing-room,"  con- 
tinued the  tenor,  "in  a  state  of  calm.  It  was  a 
form  of  nervousness  I  like,  for  it  presages  just  the 
proper  degree  of  apprehensiveness  to  balance 
the  confidence  necessary  to  do  one's  best.  I  had 
done  my  worrying  at  home:  at  night,  when  I 
should  have  slept,  during  my  hours  of  practice 
preparation  and  in  my  talks  with  Mrs.  McCor- 
mack. So  my  feeling,  as  I  waited  my  turn,  had 
in  it  nothing  which  an  interpretative  artist  need 
fear. 

"There  was  a  large  audience  that  Friday  after- 
noon, the  seats  being  quite  filled.  I  was  fifth  on 
the  list  of  singers,  a  favorable  position,  and  my 
introductory  aria,  'Questa  'o  Quella.9  The  mo- 
ment to  go  out  came  at  last,  and  with  Samuel 
Liddle,  the  official  accompanist,  I  appeared  be- 
fore my  most  important  assemblage." 

157 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

John  stopped  walking  and  removed  his  hands 
from  his  pockets.  He  selected  a  cigarette  from 
a  tray  filled  with  them,  and  resumed  his  tramping 
between  desk  and  window.  But  he  did  not  light 
up.  Twirling  the  cigarette  between  thumb  and 
forefinger  of  one  hand  he  continued  his  story. 

"For  a  space  of  time  infinitesimally  small  my 
heart  sank.  Nearly  all  musicians  who  appear 
before  the  public,  and  speakers,  too,  experience 
such  a  feeling,  at  some  time,  I  am  sure.  It  is 
the  quick  surge  of  doubt;  of  possible  failure  to 
meet  the  issue  squarely.  Yet  I  would  not  term 
it  fear.  Just  a  natural  apprehension — that 
comes  and  departs  almost  in  the  flicker  of  the 
eye. 

"I  was  myself,  my  calm  self,  almost  instantly. 
And  as  I  looked  into  the  faces  before  me  I 
thought:  'Well,  here  is  my  chance,  and  I  shall 
make  the  most  of  it.'  Then  Liddle  began  the 
accompaniment. 

"Before  the  song  was  finished  I  recognized 
from  the  audience  that  I  was  not  failing.  The 
voice  was  responsive  and  smooth,  I  had  control 
of  my  resources  and  felt  that  my  enunciation 
could  be  clearly  understood.  I  could  see  little 
signs  which  auditors  invariably  indulge  in  when- 

158 


LONDON'S  EARLY  REWARDS 

ever  favorably  impressed;  and  this  encouraged 
me  to  let  myself  go  more  freely. 

"One  quickly  catches  the  temper  of  an  assem- 
blage after  a  song  has  been  sung.  There  is  a 
difference  between  applause,  spontaneously 
given  because  the  givers  have  been  moved,  and 
the  perfunctory  clapping  of  hands  which  caps  a 
mediocre  effort.  I  left  the  stage,  after  profuse 
acknowledgement,  with  my  nerve-centres  tin- 
gling. I  seemed  to  float,  rather  than  to  walk, 
to  the  stage  exit.  And  following  me  came  the 
sound  of  many  palms  beating  against  one  an- 
other. 

"Several  persons  were  congregated  about  the 
place  back  stage  where  I  stepped  out  of  sight  of 
the  audience.  I  recall  hearing,  as  from  some 
distance,  congratulatory  words,  and  of  receiving 
a  hearty  slap,  from  some  one,  on  my  back.  The 
remainder  of  that  afternoon  remains  in  my  mem- 
ory as  a  sort  of  intoxicating  daze. 

"Mrs.  McCormack,  who  had  gone  to  Dublin, 
where  Cyril  was  born  shortly  after  my  ballad  con- 
cert debut,  sent  me  a  telegram;  and  after  I  had 
read  it  I  could  only  think  of  my  faith  rewarded; 
of  answered  prayers  .  .  .  and  of  an  overpower- 
ing sense  of  gratitude. 

159 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

"In  the  morning  I  looked  out  of  our  window 
into  the  street  below  with  exultation.  It  was  no 
premature  anticipation  of  immediate  rewards  or 
of  suddenly  acquired  fame;  nothing  of  such  na- 
ture. But  at  last  there  seemed  a  semblance  of 
something  tangible,  to  which  I  might  attach  my- 
self with  an  assurance  of  reasonable  hopes. 
Succinctly  put:  it  was  a  successfully  executed 
first  step. 

"But  if  I  rejoiced  for  Mrs.  McCormack  and  for 
myself  I  felt  thankful  that  my  good  friends  who 
recommended  me,  and  Arthur  Boosey  who  pro- 
vided me  my  chance,  had  not  had  their  confi- 
dence misplaced.  In  this  buoyant  vein  I  called 
on  Mr.  Boosey.  Without  hesitation,  yet  with  no 
fulsome  words,  he  informed  me  that  I  had  ex- 
ceeded expectations.  'If  you  do  as  well  at  the 
second  concert  no  one  will  be  sorry.'  It  was 
like  him,  to  put  it  in  that  way;  no  rousing  of 
false  hopes  that  might  be  dissipated  at  the  next 
test,  just  wholesome  encouragement  which  is 
what  the  young  singer  on  the  brink  of  progress 
requires." 

McCormack  had  rather  worked  himself  up  in 
relating  this  debut.  I  did  not  wonder  at  it.  He 
lived  that  afternoon  over  again,  right  there  in  the 

160 


LONDON'S  EARLY  REWARDS 

secluded  Rocklea  study  while  the  storm  blared 
outside — a  weird  accompaniment  to  the  tale. 

"And  the  second  Boosey  Concert,  how  did 
that  go?" 

"Even  better,  if  anything,  than  the  first. 
You  see,  I  had  more  confidence;  I  really  had. 
It  was  more  of  the  genuine  order.  The  sort  I 
possessed  at  the  first  concert  was  more  or  less 
false,  which  was  commanded  by  what  will  I  had 
to  come  and  stay  with  me  for  that  particular 
afternoon. 

"I  am  told  that  there  had  been  some  talk 
among  musicians,  and  lovers  of  music,  about  the 
singing  of  a  young  Irish  tenor  at  the  last  Boosey 
Ballad  Concert,  that  he  had  proved  a  surprise, 
and  was  to  sing  on  the  next  programme.  Of 
course,  among  people  who  follow  musical  affairs 
an  interest  to  hear  me  ensued.  You  know  how 
it  is;  a  personal  desire  to  investigate  for  one's 
self,  to  determine  how  much  of  truth  there  may 
be  in  assertions  of  the  reputed  capacities  of  a  new 
artist. 

"I  did  not,  of  course,  know  that  my  second 
appearance  was  to  be  memorable  in  my  life  and 
to  enlist  the  subsequent  confidence  and  support 
of  a  man  influential  in  large  affairs  in  London. 

161 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

Little  things  so  often  have  a  marked  bearing 
upon  our  destinies,  and  here  was  an  instance 
with  respect  to  my  own. 

"The  man  I  refer  to — he  is  dead,  now,  to  the 
sorrow  of  innumerable  thousands — was  Sir  John 
Murray  Scott.  He  was  secretary  to  the  late  Sir 
Richard  Wallace,  son  of  the  Marquis  of  Herford, 
whose  art  collection  was  one  of  the  most  com- 
plete ever  in  the  possession  of  a  single  individual. 
Sir  John  had  been  practically  reared  by  Sir  Rich- 
ard Wallace,  whose  wife,  Lady  Wallace,  regarded 
Sir  John  almost  as  her  own  son.  And  it  is  true 
that  after  the  death  of  her  husband  she  sum- 
moned Sir  John  and  told  him  it  was  her  wish 
that  the  famous  art  collection  be  conveyed  to 
him.  It  was  like  Sir  John  to  refuse.  He  ex- 
plained that,  though  he  was  a  man  of  means,  it 
would  be  difficult  for  him  to  pay  the  inheritance 
tax  on  the  art  collection.  But  apart  from  this, 
he  insisted  that  the  time  had  come  for  these  art 
works  to  be  made  available  to  the  people,  and  he 
therefore  suggested  that  it  be  tendered  the  Brit- 
ish Museum. 

"Sir  John,"  continued  McCormack,  "was 
himself  an  admirable  pianist.  His  musical 

162 


LONDON'S  EARLY  REWARDS 

knowledge  was  extensive  and  he  possessed  to  a 
remarkable  degree  the  critical  faculty.  No  less 
exacting  a  music  reviewer  than  Jimmy  Davidson, 
critic  for  the  London  Times,  respected  Sir  John's 
judgment  to  an  extent  that  caused  him,  fre- 
quently, to  ask  his  friend  to  attend  a  notable  con- 
cert and  write  the  critique. 

"At  that  second  Boosey  Ballad  Concert  Sir 
John  heard  me  sing  for  the  first  time.  And  I 
appeared  to  have  qualities  of  voice  and  feeling 
and  style  which  enlisted  his  respect,  as  I  was 
later  to  discover.  To  have  gained  an  admirer 
in  a  man  of  the  standing  and  knowledge  of  Sir 
John  would  have  been  compensation  enough  for 
one  appearance,  but  that  Friday  afternoon  did 
another  thing  for  me. 

"It  so  happened  that  the  Telegraph's  music 
critic  delegated  the  covering  of  that  concert  to  a 
gifted  writer  on  the  staff,  Robert  Maguire.  And 
'Bob'  Maguire,  as  he  was  affectionately  called, 
was  a  man  of  culture.  Without  having  been 
trained  in  the  technique  of  music,  Maguire  had 
the  faculty  of  unerring  judgment,  even  though 
incapable  of  discerning  the  whys  and  wherefores 
on  which  his  judgment  was  based.  I  only  know 

163 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

that  his  opinions  in  matters  musical  commanded 
respect  among  the  many  who  were  fortunate  in 
having  his  acquaintance,  and  that  he  wrote  enter- 
tainingly and  often  with  brilliant  style.  More- 
over, he  had  a  fine  baritone  voice  and  sang  well. 

"Bob  heard  me  at  the  second  Boosey  con- 
cert ;  and  in  the  Telegraph  of  the  next  day  there 
appeared,  in  his  article,  mention  of  a  new  tenor, 
an  Irishman  named  John  McCormack,  whose 
future  held  superlative  promise.  'It  would  be 
unfair,'  wrote  Maguire,  in  substance,  'to  compare 
this  inexperienced  singer  with  Caruso,  yet  his 
voice  has  much  of  the  quality  of  that  greatest  of 
all  tenors.' 

"When  I  read  that  article,"  said  John,  "I  no 
longer  doubted.  It  seemed  a  mere  matter  of 
time ;  a  series  of  progressive  steps  onward,  until 
I  should  finally  be  accepted  as  an  artist  and  ac- 
corded the  engagements  and  emoluments  which 
an  artist  commands.  From  that  day  I  may  say 
that  the  turning  point  in  my  career  arrived.  I 
never  was  unfortunate  enough  to  drop  backward. 
There  came  disappointments,  trials  and  obstacles 
to  overcome;  but  the  drudgery  and  heart-aches 
were  past. 

"Some  time  afterward,  when  we  moved  into 
164 


LONDON'S  EARLY  REWARDS 

another  section  of  London,  I  made  a  delightful 
discovery — my  next  door  neighbor,  a  man  whom 
until  then  I  had  never  seen,  was  Bob  Maguire; 
and  we  became  intimate  friends." 


165 


CHAPTER  XII 

LONDON  RECOGNIZES  MC  CORMACK 

Noroton,  Connecticut,  lies  in  a  beautiful  coun- 
try. Skirting  a  part  of  Long  Island  Sound,  it 
drops  back  through  sweeps  of  hills,  green  and 
wooded,  that  form  a  landscape  varying  to  the 
eye.  It  is  uncommonly  beautiful  after  rain, 
which  freshens;  and  the  morning  following  our 
extended  vigil  the  countryside  burst  with  beauty. 

I  was  up  and  dressed  early.  A  morning  walk, 
in  that  section,  is  no  opportunity  to  be  neglected. 
I  descended  from  my  room,  treading  quietly 
down  the  staircase  lest  I  arouse  others  who  had 
not  done  with  their  sleep. 

So  intent  was  I  with  caution  that  I  did  not 
observe,  until  I  was  on  the  bottom  landing,  a 
figure  bent  over  the  stick-rack  in  the  hall.  As 
the  figure  straightened  up  I  recognized  the  shoul- 
ders, broad  as  a  walking-beam,  and  the  rest  of 
John  McCormack's  sturdy  frame.  He  turned, 
and  seeing  me,  sniffed  in  surprise  and  opened 
the  outer  door. 

166 


LONDON  RECOGNIZES  McCORMACK 

"Running  out  for  some  fresh  air?" 

I  confessed  the  accusation  and  my  gratification 
that  I  should  have  aid  in  the  exploration. 

"Well,  then,  you'll  have  to  walk.  No  loaf- 
ing, or  you  walk  alone." 

I  said  nothing  in  reply.  I  needed  my  breath, 
for  the  tenor  struck  a  pace,  and  held  to  it,  that 
would  have  made  Dan  O'Leary  cast  an  envious 
eye.  For  several  miles  John  had  no  words  for 
me.  He  was  cheery  enough,  and  companion- 
able in  a  silence  we  both  understood.  But  the 
present  concerned  nature  and  a  brisk  walk  and 
the  deep  inhaling  of  health-giving  pure  air. 

"Tired?"  demanded  McCormack. 

I  lied  a  little  in  a  denial. 

John  looked  down  at  me — I'm  shorter  than 
he,  and  some  pounds  lighter — and  grinned. 
"I  weighed  before  starting,"  he  confided.  "I'm 
dropping  steadily,  under  my  training."  I  re- 
plied that  he  looked  it,  as  he  did.  Not  much 
above  the  two  hundred  mark,  his  lines  were  ath- 
letic and  showed  a  man  of  thirty-four  condition- 
ing fast. 

"What  did  you  think  of  that  story  I  told  you 
last  night?" 

I  answered  that  he  had  stopped  at  an  interest- 
167 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

ing  point  at  which  I  was  not  unwilling  he  should 
resume.  John  grunted  at  this,  strode  on  for  a 
couple  of  hundred  yards  farther,  and  picked  up 
his  narrative. 

"I  don't  suppose  any  one  ever  will  know  the 
joy  I  got  from  the  letters  my  father  and  mother 
sent  me  when  they  heard  of  my  singing  at  the 
second  Boosey  Concert.  You  would  have 
thought  they  were  happier  than  I.  Well,  pos- 
sibly they  were;  for  I  know  something,  myself, 
of  parental  love.  It's  a  wonderful  thing.  A 
man's  never  completely  a  man,  nor  a  woman  a 
woman,  until  children  come.  With  them  the 
world  takes  on  a  different  look.  It  puts  some- 
thing into  the  perspective  which  isn't  otherwise 
there.  So  the  letters  from  mother  and  father 
made  my  own  gladness  the  greater  because  of 
theirs. 

"Vincent  O'Brien  rather  chortled  a  bit,  too. 
You  see,  he  took  a  justifiable  pride  in  his  tenor 
discovery,  and  Sabatini,  my  good  maestro,  who 
wrote  that  Giovanni  was  only  getting  started  and 
reminded  me  of  numerous  counselings  he  had 
given  me  in  the  past. 

"Mrs.  McCormack,  naturally,  also  wrote, 
from  Dublin.  It  thrilled  me  to  read  her  words 

168 


LONDON  RECOGNIZES  McCORMACK 

and  know  that  her  patience  was  not  to  be  in  vain. 

"One  meets  many  people  in  music  life,  and 
I  have  been  no  exception  to  this.  Sometimes 
these  meetings  are  uncommonly  productive,  and 
lead  to  strange  happenings.  I  almost  think  they 
are  the  guidings  of  Destiny's  hand.  I  had  such 
an  experience  two  days  after  the  second  Ballad 
Concert,  when  Miss  Eva  Gauthier,  a  Canadian 
soprano  then  studying  in  London,  called  me  by 
'phone  and  asked  if  I  would  like  to  go  with 
her,  the  following  evening,  to  call  on  Sir  John 
Murray  Scott.  I  of  course  knew  who  Sir  John 
was;  who,  in  London,  didn't?  Yet  I  was  loath 
to  accept  Miss  Gauthier's  invitation  without  one 
from  Sir  John  himself.  So  I  explained  to  Miss 
Gauthier.  She  communicated  with  him  .  .  . 
which  she  could  with  propriety  do,  because  he 
was  a  close  friend  of  Sir  Wilfrid  Laurier,  Can- 
ada's premier,  whose  protegee  Miss  Gauthier  was. 

"Sir  John  responded  immediately,  saying: 
'If  he  is  the  young  tenor  I  heard  at  the  Boosey 
concert  bring  him  with  you.  I  admire  his  voice 
and  should  like  to  meet  him.' 

"We  went  and  that  marked  the  beginning  of 
a  friendship  that  lasted  until  Sir  John's  death. 
I've  always  called  him  my  fairy-godfather,  be- 

169 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

cause  of  his  kindnesses.  He  was  a  huge  man 
physically,  and  just  as  large  in  brain  and  heart. 
He  played  a  piano  for  us  that  evening,  with  a 
touch  more  velvety  and  singing  than  many  a  dis- 
tinguished pianist  I  have  heard.  I  recall  his  say- 
ing that  the  test  for  a  pianoforte  artist  was  an 
ability  to  play  the  slow  movement  of  Beethoven's 
'Moonlight'  Sonata ;  just  as  the  mark  of  a  singer's 
skill  rose  or  fell  according  to  the  cantilena  dis- 
played. I  sang  several  songs  that  evening  for 
Sir  John,  whose  presence  had  an  indescribably 
stimulating  effect  upon  me. 

"The  news  of  my  Boosey  successes  traveled 
fast.  I  received  engagements  for  a  number  of 
concerts,  and  they  paid  fairly  well  and  sent  me 
steadily  along  the  path  I  desired.  Offers  of 
various  kinds  came  also  and  some  I  was  glad  to 
consider. 

"Arthur  Boosey,  convinced  now  of  my  useful- 
ness to  him,  summoned  me.  'I  am,  as  you 
know,  finishing  with  the  ballad  concerts  for  the 
season,  but  next  year  I  can  use  you  for  each  of 
the  seven.  And  if  the  fee  is  satisfactory  we  will 
draw  the  contract  now.'  That  was  the  start  of 
our  long-held  relations,  which  resulted  in  a  life 
contract — which  is  one  of  my  prized  possessions 

170 


LONDON  RECOGNIZES  McCORMACK 

— to  sing  at  any  Boosey  Ballad  Concert  I  may 
designate  at  the  highest  appearance  fee  ever  paid. 

"After  having  waited  and  worked  so  long  for 
recognition  it  was  good  to  taste  it.  I  was  like 
a  Marathon  runner  who  drinks  thirstily  of  wa- 
ter after  his  punishing  journey;  but  I  tried  to 
evade  the  danger  of  complacency.  Long  before, 
a  friend,  Mrs.  Denny  Lane,  had  warned  me  of 
the  proverb:  'Non  progredi,  est  regredi,'  and 
I  heeded  that.  In  art  one  never  stands  still; 
there  must  be  movement,  either  forward  or  back, 
and  I  wished  to  advance. 

"About  this  time  Willie  Boosey  sent  for  me. 
I  of  course  went  at  once  to  see  him  and  was 
taken  into  his  office  where  he  shook  hands  with 
me  cordially  and  asked  me  to  be  seated.  He 
did  not  endeavor  to  disguise  the  issue,  his  con- 
versation— after  he  had  congratulated  me  on  my 
ballad  concert  success — turning  at  once  to  his 


own  series. 

66    6 


You  are  an  artist,'  he  said,  'and  the  public 
likes  you.  I  want  you  to  sing  at  my  concerts 
and  am  willing  to  pay  you  your  own  price.' 

"I  thanked  him,  and  answered,  'I  am  sorry, 
Mr.  Boosey,  but  you  haven't  money  enough  in 
your  establishment  to  induce  me  to  appear  on 

171 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

your  programmes.  Arthur  Boosey  gave  me  my 
chance  when  I  needed  it,  and  I  shall  remain  with 
him.' 

"Willie  Boosey  sat  there  looking  at  me  for 
some  time  before  making  answer;  I'll  always  re- 
spect what  he  said.  'Thanks,  McCormack,'  he 
replied,  Tm  glad  to  know  one  singer  who  un- 
derstands gratitude.'  I  left  Willie  Boosey  more 
than  ever  sure  that  the  straight  course  is  the 
best,  in  respects  other  than  keeping  one's  con- 
science at  peace. 

"Spring  was  near  at  hand,  and  just  before  it 
broke  in  that  year,  Nineteen  Seven,  came  my  first 
invitation  to  sing  at  a  symphony  concert.  The 
artist  who  had  been  engaged  fell  ill  suddenly, 
and  word  of  the  opening  reached  my  new-found 
friend,  Sir  John  Murray  Scott,  chairman  of  the 
Sunday  Concert  Society,  who  immediately  nom- 
inated me  for  the  vacancy.  I  was  gratified  when 
Henry  J.  Wood,  conductor  of  the  London  Sym- 
phony, asked  me  if  I  would  appear  because  a 
year  before,  when  William  Ludwig  had  pre- 
sented me  to  Sir  Henry,  he  had  not  encouraged 
me. 

"The  concert  was  one  of  those  held  on  Sun- 
day afternoons  and  was  largely  attended.  The 

172 


LONDON  RECOGNIZES  McCORMACK 

rehearsal  had  been  accomplished,  I  felt,  to  the 
satisfaction  of  the  conductor,  and  I  was  less  ap- 
prehensive after  it;  for  Wood  held  rigid  ideas 
musically  and  I  wished  particularly  to  have  my 
musicianship  satisfy  him.  My  object  was  to 
please  sufficiently  to  justify  being  engaged  to 
sing  at  one  of  the  Friday  afternoon  concerts." 

"And  were  you?" 

"Yes;  the  first  symphony  appearance  roused 
the  best  in  me.  And  on  the  Good  Friday  pro- 
gramme I  appeared  as  soloist.  But  I  think  that 
Sir  John  Murray  Scott  was  chiefly  responsible 
for  the  re-engagement.  He  believed  the  success 
merited  encouragement  and  he  counted  my  sym- 
phony debut  as  that.  The  second  appearance 
rather  fortified  my  confidence.  I  was  not  so 
conceited  as  to  regard  a  moderate  triumph  as 
providing  laurels  to  be  rested  on ;  but  the  public 
and  the  press,  and  some  musician  friends,  told 
me  that  I  was  ready  for  serious  singing  under 
large  auspices,  and  I  believed  them. 

"But  in  the  midst  of  these  bits  of  good  for- 
tune came  another,  and  greater  one.  For  on  the 
26th  of  March,  Nineteen  Seven,  in  Dublin,  Cyril 
was  born.  I  got  word,  by  telegraph,  and  can't 
you  just  imagine  my  feelings  ?  I  wanted  to  shout 

173 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

the  good  news  from  the  housetops.  I  can  safely 
say  I  never  felt  more  genuinely  proud  in  my  life ; 
in  fact  I  felt  as  every  young  father  feels  at  the 
safe  arrival  of  his  first-born.  I  had  hoped  our 
first-born  would  be  a  son,  and  the  news  seemed 
further  evidence  that  I  was  being  smiled  on. 
Music  disappeared  from  my  mind,  for  the  time 
being,  and  I  hurried  to  Dublin  and  remained 
until  Mrs.  McCormack  and  Cyril  were  well 
enough  to  allow  me  to  return  without  worry- 
ing about  them. 

"Every  week  seemed  to  strengthen  the  friend- 
ship between  Sir  John  Murray  Scott  and  me. 
He  was  good  enough  to  invite  me  often  to  his 
home,  and  there  I  benefited  far  more  even  than 
I  was  then  able  to  comprehend.  For  Sir  John's 
outlook  upon  life  was  broad,  and  he  imparted  to 
those  privileged  to  come  in  contact  with  him  an 
appreciation  of  what  such  a  perspective  meant. 
I  know  in  my  own  case  that  he  stimulated  the 
finer  qualities  and  eventually  enabled  me  to  un- 
derstand that  to  become  a  great  singing  artist — 
in  the  full  sense — one  must  be  more,  merely, 
than  singer  and  musician. 

"Some  time  before  these  days  (to  retrace  our 
steps  a  bit),  Gordon  Cleather  had  suggested 

174 


LONDON  RECOGNIZES  McCORMACK 

my  seeing  George  Edwardes,  manager  of  the 
London  Gaiety  and  Daly's  Theatre,  who  was 
then  planning  to  present  'The  Waltz  Dream,' 
which  has  a  fine  part  for  tenor  and  takes  a  tenor 
to  sing  it.  But  Mr.  Edwardes  was  out  of  town, 
and  the  acting  manager — J.  A.  E.  Malone — 
whom  everyone  called  'Alphabet'  Malone,  was 
'chesty'  under  his  temporary  authority. 

"He  consented  to  hear  me  sing,  which  struck 
me  as  a  bit  of  humor  because,  while  I  was  in  the 
midst  of  the  aria  (I  think  the  'Flower  Song,'  from 
'Carmen'),  I  saw  that  he  was  utterly  unable  to 
make  anything  out  of  it.  Nevertheless,  he  was 
not  unwilling,  at  that,  to  pass  an  opinion  and 
offer  me  a  position  in  the  chorus  at  ten  dollars 
a  week.  'But,  Malone,'  Cleather  said,  'you 
surely  can  use  McCormack  as  understudy  to  your 
first  tenor.'  Malone,  however,  held  no  such  no- 
tion. 'Take  it  or  leave  it,'  he  said.  I  couldn't 
well  take  a  position  in  the  chorus,  so  I  'left  it.' 

"I  related  this  experience,  one  evening,  to 
Sir  John  Murray  Scott,  when  calling  at  his 
house,  and  he  laughed.  'One  of  these  days,'  he 
said,  'that  will  make  a  good  story.'  Whether 
it  does,  there  is  a  sequel,  which  I  will  tell  a  little 
farther  on,  that  did  make  a  good  story,  and 

175 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

brought  to  Mr.  Edwardes's  manager  a  rebuke  for 
having  failed,  at  the  time,  to  communicate  with 
him  concerning  me. 

"My  voice,  as  warm  weather  approached,  be- 
came more  responsive  and  my  ambitions  in- 
creased. Covent  Garden  was  a  spot  on  which 
I  had  always  had  a  secret  eye,  and  every  time  I 
heard  an  opera  there  I  yearned,  a  little  more 
than  the  time  before,  for  the  day  which  would 
find  me  singing  on  that  historic  stage ;  more  than 
once,  on  such  an  occasion,  having  said  to  Mrs. 
McCormack  that  I'd  give  anything,  sometime,  to 
have  her  see  me  up  there. 

"However,  I  kept  my  ambition  to  myself;  for 
presumptuousness  is  one  element  I  dislike. 
Still,  the  inner  suggestion  continued  to  make  it- 
self felt,  so  I  was  brought  one  evening  to  Cleo- 
fonte  Campanini,  who  was  the  Covent  Garden 
first-conductor.  He  was  courteous  enough,  and 
agreed  to  hear  me.  'Bring  something  up  to  my 
rehearsal  room,'  he  suggested,  'and  we'll  see  how 
it  goes.' 

"I  did,  as  soon  as  I  could  get  my  music;  and 
I  sang  through  for  him,  from  start  to  close,  the 
tenor  part  in  'Cavalleria  Rusticana.'  'Hm,'  said 
Campanini  when  I  had  sung  the  last  note,  'bella 

176 


LONDON  RECOGNIZES  McCORMACK 

voce,  but  I  think  you  are  not  ready  yet — for 
Covent  Garden.'  ' 

"I  was  under  the  impression,"  I  interjected, 
"that  Campanini  was  responsible  for  your  Co- 
vent  Garden  engagement,  and  also  for  your  hav- 
ing been  brought  over  to  the  Manhattan,  in  New 
York." 

"For  the  latter,  yes;  for  Covent  Garden,  no." 
Then  he  went  on.  "In  order  that  the  pro- 
cedure, and  the  difficulties  one  encounters  be- 
fore full-fledged  consideration  is  to  be  had  from 
those  controlling  Covent  Gardent,  I  will  explain 
how  the  authority  was  divided. 

"There  was — and  still  is — a  board  of  di- 
rectors, with  a  chairman,  which  exercised  a  su- 
pervising control  over  the  policy  and  adminis- 
tration. This  board,  similar  to  that  of  the  New 
York  Metropolitan  Opera  House,  had  a  personnel 
of  wealthy  and  prominent  men;  gentlemen  who 
figured  in  important  affairs  of  finance,  the  arts, 
politics  and  society.  'Harry'  V.  Higgins  was 
chairman  of  the  board,  and  to  him  the  heads  of 
the  various  departments  (I  believe  we  may  call 
them  that)  reported  and  from  him  took  their 
counsel. 

"The  operating  side  of  Covent  Garden  ran  in 
177 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

a  dual  way.  There  was  the  business  end,  and 
the  artistic.  Neil  Forsyth,  who  later  became  one 
of  my  dear  friends,  was  business  manager  of  Co- 
vent  Garden,  and  he  had  an  assistant  and  numer- 
ous aides.  Percy  Pitt  served  as  a  sort  of  ad- 
viser in  the  choice  of  repertoire,  conductors  and 
artists,  and  occasionally  elected  to  conduct  a  per- 
formance. He  was,  in  a  way,  the  link  between 
the  artistic  and  business  parts  of  the  organiza- 
tion ;  the  man  upon  whose  judgment  and  recom- 
mendations Mr.  Higgins  and  his  co-directors  of 
the  board  largely  relied. 

"An  unknown  singer,  seeking  consideration  of 
Covent  Garden  authorities,  often  failed  to  secure 
their  attention.  Some  assistant  conductor 
would  be  delegated  to  hear  the  candidate,  to  de- 
termine whether  it  was  worth  while  for  Mr.  Pitt 
to  hear  him,  or  to  have  Mr.  Pitt  and  several  of 
the  conductors  assemble  in  a  sort  of  pretentious 
audition. 

"The  second  time  I  tried  for  Covent  Garden 
the  audition  took  place  in  Bechstein  Hall,  where 
Percy  Pitt  and  several  others  heard  me;  but  for- 
tune did  not  then  smile  on  me. 

'Twas  rather  blue  to  get  this  setback  on  top  of 
Campanini's  verdict.  Among  other  things  he 

178 


LONDON  RECOGNIZES  McCORMACK 

and  Pitt  feared  was  that  my  voice  was  not  robust 
enough  for  opera — particularly  that  given  in 
Covent  Garden.  Yet  I  was  not  willing  to  con- 
sider the  matter  settled.  It  was  discouraging,  I 
admit;  still  a  hope  continued  to  beat  within 


me." 


For  a  few  hundred  yards  McCormack  and  I 
trudged  along  the  cement  road  leading  towards 
his  summer  home,  he  thinking,  doubtless,  of  that 
earlier  summer  when  his  efforts  had  enlisted  so 
little  response. 

"But,"  said  McCormack,  increasing  his  stride 
after  glancing  at  his  watch  and  noting  that  we 
should  have  to  hurry  to  reach  Rocklea  at  the 
breakfast  hour,  "something  important  happened 
soon  after.  Sir  John  apparently  had  held  the 
Covent  Garden  idea,  just  as  I  had,  though  he  had 
also  kept  it  to  himself.  He  broached  the  mat- 
ter one  late  afternoon,  while  I  was  having  tea 
with  him,  and  informed  me  he  had  arranged  that 
I  should  sing  for  Percy  Pitt  and  his  associates, 
in  a  few  days,  in  Covent  Garden. 

"Pitt  was  a  splendid  musician,  he  had  been 
for  many  years  accompanist  at  Arthur  Boosey's 
Ballad  Concerts,  and  his  word  was  relied  on  im- 
plicitly by  'Harry'  Higgins,  and  the  other  direct- 

179 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

ors  of  Covent  Garden.  Once  more,  for  the  third 
time,  I  got  ready  for  an  audition.,  and  the  im- 
portance of  this  one  rather  told  on  my  nerves. 
It  isn't  easy,  you  may  believe,  to  undertake  a 
musical  recovery  after  having  previously  failed 
to  impress.  Then,  I  was  not  unaware  that  if 
Pitt  approved  me  Campanini  might  interfere. 
But  it  was  all  in  a  lifetime,  and  I  summoned 
courage  and  went  to  Covent  Garden. 

"The  director  was  sitting  nonchalantly  in  an 
orchestra-chair  with  others  who  were  to  hear  me 
gathered  about.  Pitt  greeted  me  and  wasted  no 
time  in  asking  me  to  proceed. 

"To  the  stage  I  went,  somewhat  apprehen- 
sive of  the  outcome,  yet  not  over-nervous.  Cam- 
panini's  and  Pitt's  words  kept  returning  to  my 
mind.  These  thoughts,  and  my  own  determina- 
tion to  make  as  much  as  I  could  of  this  oppor- 
tunity, conflicted;  but  I  let  them  fight  it  out, 
gradually  steadied  myself  and  signalling  the  ac- 
companist that  I  was  ready  I  faced  my  critical 
auditors. 

f  'Che    Gelida    Martina'    went    fairly    well. 

When  I  had  finished  I  requested  the  accompan- 

~ist  to  begin  the  'Carmen  Flower  Song.'     You 

see,  I  was  anxious  to  do  enough  to  give  Pitt  as 

180 


LONDON  RECOGNIZES  McCORMACK 

complete  an  idea  as  one  can  obtain  through  a 
single  hearing  of  a  singer  of  the  extent  of  my 
voice  and  style.  Once  well  into  the  aria  I  lost 
myself,  almost  completely,  to  externals,  and  in 
this  second  number  I  felt  that  I  was  achieving 
a  creditable  mark. 

"The  'Flower  Song'  is  not  easy  for  the  singer. 
Though  often  badly  done  in  opera,  it  is  a  com- 
position wherein  the  artist  may  disclose  qualities 
of  superiority — in  the  smoothness  of  tone,  canti- 
lena, warmth  of  style  and  dramatic  vigor.  Well 
done  it  always  commands  admiration,  and  the 
singer  who  thus  interprets  it  gains  admiration, 
too. 

"I  finished  the  high  B-flat,  and  the  closing 
phrase  that  comes  immediately  after,  with  a  pe- 
culiar sensation.  It  is  odd,"  mused  John,  "how 
one  gets  a  premonition  sometimes.  I've  said 
that  I'm  rather  psychic.  I  appeared  to  be  that 
day.  I  could  almost  have  anticipated  what  the 
verdict  would  be,  and  as  I  put  away  the  opera 
scores  in  my  music-portfolio  I  was  prepared  for 
a  favorable  decision. 

"It  wasn't  easy  to  assume  a  calm  manner  as 
I  approached  Pitt  and  his  associates,  who  were 
seated  in  the  body  of  the  auditorium.  But  I 

181 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

stood,  waiting  for  Pitt's  words,  with  my  heart 
pounding  violently. 

Pitt  told  me  they  would  advise  me  of  the  di- 
rectors' decision,  and  I  went  away.  Later  that 
day  a  'phone  message  called  me  to  Covent 
Garden. 

'We  have  decided,'  he  said,  'to  engage  you 
— if  fifteen  pounds  a  week  will  be  sufficient.' 

"I  didn't  tell  him  so,  but  I  would  have  sung 
for  nothing.  I  only  answered,  'I  thank  you, 
very  much.  If  I  once  get  into  Covent  Garden 
you  will  never  get  me  out.' 

"I  didn't  mean  it  to  sound  boastful;  I  was  in 
no  such  mood.  I  only  believed,  in  those  con- 
ditions which  prevailed  in  this  wonderful  opera 
house,  that  I  could  satisfy,  and  continue  to  do 
so  for  a  long  time.  Pitt  grasped  my  meaning, 
I'm  sure,  for  he  smiled  at  my  words,  and  in- 
formed me  that  he  would  have  the  contract  pre- 
pared for  me  to  sign,  and  asked  me  to  return 
the  following  day." 

We  passed  through  the  gate  at  Rocklea,  and 
on  up  the  graveled  walk  to  the  house,  just  as  the 
faint  sounding  of  the  gong  announcing  breakfast 
reached  our  ears. 

182 


CHAPTER  XIII 

LONDON    OPENS    ITS   ARMS 

John  felt  like  fishing  that  morning.  After 
his  swim  and  a  frolic  with  his  Belgian  police  dog, 
Nellie,  he  announced  to  Mrs.  McCormack  that 
the  mood  was  on  him.  "Big  fellows,"  declared 
John,  "which  give  one  a  tussle." 

Cyril  and  Gwen  shared  their  father's  fishing 
desires  and  scurried  off  to  get  into  their  rubber- 
boots  preparatory  to  the  jaunt  to  the  beach  to 
dig  the  requisite  clams  for  bait. 

But  Mrs.  McCormack  had  Red  Cross  duties 
to  perform  and  they  could  not  wait.  So  she  and 
her  sister,  Miss  Foley,  left  us  to  our  luck,  which 
turned  out  to  be  rather  good. 

Wilkinson  got  the  dory  ready,  and  by  that 
time  Gwen  and  Cyril  appeared,  carrying  between 
them  a  large  pail  generously  filled  with  the  lure 
for  our  finny  game. 

"It's  odd,"  mused  John,  as  he  stood  at  the 
wheel  of  the  Rocklea,  "what  the  possession  of  that 

183 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

Covent  Garden  contract  did  for  me.  It  was 
recognition,  after  repeated  efforts  to  gain  it,  and 
my  confidence  in  myself  became  surer.  For  two 
days  I  was  so  filled  with  the  joy  of  possession  of 
the  long-coveted  document  that  I  wasn't  able 
to  do  much  save  to  think  about  it.  You  see,  I 
was  impressionable,  and  rather  young,  which 
explains  my  state  of  mind." 

Back  of  us,  in  the  dory,  Cyril  and  Gwen  were 
singing;  in  unison,  their  soprano  voices  rising 
higher  and  higher.  John  stopped  talking,  and 
half  turned,  to  listen.  "They  scarcely  ever 
stop,"  he  remarked,  which  was  the  truth. 
From  personal  knowledge  I  am  aware  that  they 
sing  at  least  five  hours  in  every  twenty- four ;  and 
every  sort  of  music  which  the  voice  may  give 
forth.  This  morning  they  engaged  in  competi- 
tion to  see  which  could  sustain  the  longer 
phrase,  and  each  would  fill  the  lungs  to  the  limit 
and  hold  on  to  the  tone  as  though  life  depended 
on  the  test.  Then  Gwen,  whose  voice  is  agile, 
loosed  scales  and  turns  and  trills  until  the  air 
resounded  with  her  warbling.  And  Cyril,  scorn- 
ing that  character  of  vocal  feat,  gave  himself  (in 
the  midst  of  his  sister's  singing)  to  altitudinous 
notes.  It  was  an  Ellen  Beach  Yaw  effect. 

184 


LONDON  OPENS  ITS  ARMS 

"I  never  stop  them,"  explained  John ;  nor  do 
I  blame  him.  For  their  voices  are  sympathetic 
and  true.  Nor  should  it  occasion  surprise  if, 
one  day,  Gwendolyn  McCormack  developed  into 
a  distinguished  coloratura  soprano,  perhaps  an- 
other Galli-Curci. 

When  I  spoke  of  this  to  John  he  imparted  to 
me  this  particular  piece  of  information. 

"You  are  absolutely  correct  about  Gwen's 
coloratura  soprano  tendencies.  When  Mme. 
Galli-Curci  first  heard  her — she  was  singing 
much  as  you  just  heard  her  sing — that  great 
artist  said  to  me:  'It  would  not  in  the  least 
surprise  me  if  Gwenny  one  day  became  a  second 
Galli-Curci.  (What  a  wonderful  artist  and 
charming  body  she  is!) 

"She  really  meant  what  she  said.  Mme. 
Galli-Curci  does  not  go  out  of  her  way,  for  cour- 
tesy's sake,  to  say  nice  things— especially  if  they 
might  fall  into  the  category  of  exaggeration. 
Nor  is  it  remarkable  that  Gwen  and  Cyril  should 
sing  as  they  do  (apart  from  their  having  what  I 
believe  anyone  will  recognize  as  exceptional  nat- 
ural voices),  because  they  have  heard  the  best 
music,  always,  about  the  house.  Their  taste  has 
therefore  been  unconsciously  formed  for  musical 

185 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

masterpieces.  The  morning  Mme.  Galli-Curci 
heard  them  singing  the  Bach  double-concerto  she 
was  actually  astonished.  Yet  there  is  nothing 
about  their  having  sung  that  composition  which 
occasions  surprise  among  those  of  us  in  the  fam- 
ily, though  I'll  admit  it  is  uncommon.  Still, 
they  had  heard  it  so  often  from  the  Victor  phono- 
graph record  as  played  by  Kreisler  and  Zimbalist 
that  it  had  sunk  deep  into  their  memories.  And 
I  want  to  say  here,  that  I  consider  the  educa- 
tional value  of  what  is  being  done  by  the  Victor 
Talking  Machine  Company  to  be  without  com- 
parison. What  wouldn't  I  give  to  have  records 
of  Mario  and  the  other  great  artists  of  early  days 
as  the  Victor  Company  could  make  them ! 

The  tenor  forsook  the  subject  of  his  children's 
musical  and  vocal  qualifications,  after  those  last 
words.  Shortly  afterward  he  got  back  again  to 
Co  vent  Garden. 

"I  made  my  debut  there  in  October,  on  the 
fifteenth,  Nineteen  Hundred  Seven.  It  is  a  fact 
that  I  have  sung  there  each  successive  season 
since,  up  to  Nineteen  Fourteen,  when  the  war 
broke  out.  And  I  have  a  contract  calling  for 
the  next  season  Covent  Garden  gives — which  I 
hope  will  open  with  a  gala  performance  in  honor 

186 


Gwendolyn  and  Cyril  McCormack 


LONDON  OPENS  ITS  ARMS 

of  the  Allies'  victory  and  which  I  pray,  for  the 
sake  of  humanity,  will  be  soon.  To  complete 
the  record  it  is  pertinent,  no  doubt,  to  state  that 
my  remuneration  has  increased  rather  consider- 
ably. 

"There  is  an  old  saying  that  'it  never  rains 
but  it  pours,'  which  is  applicable  to  that  par- 
ticular summer.  Before  I  got  away  to  go  to 
Mrs.  McCormack  and  Cyril  in  Dublin,  and 
to  visit  my  father  and  mother  and  sisters  and 
brother,  in  Athlone,  negotiations  were  com- 
menced to  appear  in  the  tour  of  Harrison  Con- 
certs, an  important  series  given  throughout  Eng- 
land and  Scotland,  and  the  contract  signed  (at 
a  good  figure)  before  I  left  London. 

"But  with  all  this  good  fortune,  which  seemed 
heaping  into  my  lap,  I  seemed  to  cleave  more 
than  ever  to  my  old  friends.  I've  been  that  way, 
and  shall  not  change.  Sammy  Liddle,  one  of 
the  finest  accompanists  living,  saw  much  of  me, 
when  he  sat  wading  through  manuscript  music 
in  the  little  room  of  his  in  Arthur  Boosey's 
place.  I  spent  considerable  time  with  him 
every  day,  that  year  and  in  others  that  followed. 
Going  through  much  new  music — even  though 
a  deal  of  it  was  admittedly  bad  music — did  me 

187 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

no  harm.  Sammy  would  play,  and  I  would  hum 
through  those  manuscripts;  and  occasionally  we 
would  discover  a  promising  ballad,  which  would 
be  published  and  have  its  sale.  Many  of  these 
I,  of  course,  subsequently  sang  at  a  Boosey 
Concert. 

"I  recollect  one  day  the  manuscripts  were  all 
very  bad.  Nothing  amongst  those  which  we  ran 
through  either  of  us  could  consider.  One  after 
another  they  were  tossed  aside,  impossible. 
'Hopeless,'  said  Sammy,  making  a  wry  face  as 
he  looked  up  at  me.  'Oh,  for  just  one  fairly 
respectable  piece  of  music!'  That  gave  me  a 
thought. 

'  'Here,  Sammy,'  I  remarked,  taking  a  folded 
piece  of  manuscript  from  my  pocket,  'is  some- 
thing we  might  try;  play  it.'  He  put  the  paper 
on  the  music  rack,  straightened  the  folds  and  as 
he  played  I  sang  the  words  and  music. 

6  'Not  a  bad  idea,'  admitted  Sammy,  'and  I 
rather  like  that  pianissimo  high  A-natural  at  the 
end.'  We  repeated  the  song,  and  once  more 
Liddle  had  an  encouraging  word  to  say  for  it. 
Arthur  Boosey,  who  had  listened,  remarked,  'I 
don't  think  much  of  it.'  'Well,'  I  informed  him, 
'Charlie  Marshall  wrote  the  music  and  John 

188 


LONDON  OPENS  ITS  ARMS 

Bardsley  took  it  to  Willie  Boosey,  who  couldn't 
see  enough  in  the  song  to  accept  it.  But  if  you 
recommend  it  for  publication  I'll  sing  it  at  the 
first  ballad  concert  in  the  fall.'  That  settled  the 
matter,  because  Boosey  would  publish  anything 
I  thought  well  enough  of  to  sing  publicly  and  the 
song  was  prepared  for  the  audiences.  And  I  did 
sing  it,  several  weeks  later. 

"The  name  of  that  song  is  'I  Hear  You  Calling 
Me,'  and  next  to  'The  Holy  City'  it  has  sold  more 
copies  than  any  other  piece  of  music  ever 
printed." 

John  steered  the  Rocklea  past  the  New  York 
Police  Department  yacht,  which  lay  at  anchor 
about  a  mile  and  a  half  off  Rocklea,  and  a  short 
distance  beyond  where  one  of  the  several  fishing- 
grounds  thereabouts  lay.  We  dropped  the  an- 
chor and  got  out  our  poles.  But  Cyril  had  for- 
gotten to  bring  enough  sinkers,  and  there  was 
a  panic.  How  would  we  get  our  hooks  to  the 
bottom?  Wilkinson  and  Cyril — who  has  a  me- 
chanical turn  and  is  forever  puttering  about  ma- 
chinery— got  their  inventive  minds  busy,  and 
Gwen  finally  found  herself  using  a  drop  line  with 
a  wrench  for  a  sinker. 

"We  sought  other  quarters  in  the  fall,"  John 
189 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

went  on  later  as  we  were  homeward  bound,  "when 
Mrs.  McCormack,  Baby  Cyril  and  I  reached  Lon- 
don. Six  months  had  brought  a  change  in  our 
financial  status;  we  had  some  butter,  then,  for 
our  bread  and  an  occasional  piece  of  cake.  It 
was  a  relief,  although  I  find  an  odd  pleasure  in 
reflecting  upon  the  hardships  of  my  student  and 
early  professional  career.  There  were  many 
happy  days  in  them. 

"The  main  business,  you  may  be  sure,  was  pre- 
paring for  the  opera  debut.  There  could  be  no 
half-way  measures  here;  Covent  Garden  audi- 
ences knew  the  best,  were  accustomed  to  it  and 
countenanced  no  other.  Allowances,  I  judged, 
would  be  made  for  a  newcomer  of  twenty-three; 
still  he  would  have  to  attain  a  definite  standard, 
in  voice  and  art — to  succeed.  Which  I  meant, 
if  it  lay  within  me,  to  do." 

John  threw  over  the  wheel  hard  a-port,  and 
the  Rocklea  circled  a  stake  marking  the  shallow 
channel  and  went  off  into  deeper  water. 

"There  were  numerous  rehearsals,  and  every 
one  was  kindness  itself.  I'll  not  forget  that,  be- 
cause those  first  rehearsals  mean  so  much  to  a 
young  artist.  The  opera  for  my  debut  was  'Cav- 
alleria  Rusticana,'  in  which  I  knew  the  notes  and 

190 


LONDON  OPENS  ITS  ARMS 

words  backwards.  Every  bit  of  action  and  stage 
business  I  had  memorized  until,  I  think,  I  could 
have  done  the  entire  role  in  a  trance.  I  wanted 
it  that  way,  for  in  an  emergency  the  memory, 
thoroughly  charged,  will  often  act  mechanically 
and  carry  one  through  a  danger-spot  to  safety. 

"The  night  of  nights — and  it  was  all  that — 
came  at  last.  It  was  a  fine  night,  and  clear, 
which  I  took  as  a  favorable  omen.  I  had  a 
light  supper  at  half-past  three,  at  Sir  John  Mur- 
ray Scott's,  and  he  sent  me  to  the  theatre  in  his 
brougham.  Six  o'clock  found  me  in  my  dress- 
ing-room at  Covent  Garden.  'Cavalleria  Rus- 
ticana'  preceded  the  second  part  of  the  double-bill 
which  consisted,  as  it  usually  does  when  the 
Mascagni  work  is  performed,  of  'I  Pagliacci.' 
So  I  was  made  up  and  ready  for  the  stage  before 
the  tenor  arrived  who  was  to  appear  in  the  latter 
opera. 

"He  was  not  sympathetic;  self-sufficient  and 
with  no  kind  word  for  a  beginner.  And  of  all 
the  principals  cast  that  night  he,  alone,  said 
nothing  to  stiffen  my  spine.  But  one  of  the 
artists  helped  enough  to  make  up  for  his  surli- 
ness; a  courteous  chap,  with  the  milk  of  human 
kindness  in  his  heart.  It  is  strange  what  little 

191 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

things  one  remembers !  I  was  feeling  badly.  I 
saw  him  poking  his  head  in  at  my  doorway,  at 
my  invitation  to  enter,  after  his  knock. 

'  'My  name  is  Sammarco,'  said  the  stranger, 
'and  I  have  come  to  wish  you  good  luck.'  He 
said  some  other  things,  too,  but  the  words  wish- 
ing me  luck  stuck  in  my  memory.  Good  old 
Sammarco — and  he  isn't  so  old,  either — he's  as 
fine  a  man  as  he  is  artist.  And  ever  the  friend. 

"He  went  away  then,  and  the  unsympathetic 
tenor  (we  shared  the  same  dressing-room)  came 
back  to  get  ready  for  his  work.  So  I  went  out- 
side, for  the  curtain  was  not  far  off." 

"And  were  you  nervous?"  I  asked. 

"I  was  so  nervous,"  replied  McCormack,  "that 
I  ceased  to  be  nervous.  I  guess  the  nerves,  for 
that  evening,  were  thoroughly  burned  out.  In 
the  wings  I  met  Borghild  Bryhn,  who  was  to  sing 
Santuzza,  and  Angelo  Scandiani,  the  baritone. 
Also  Maestro  Panizza,  the  conductor.  The  time 
was  close  and  ...  I  was  ready. 

"How  thankful  I  was,  standing  there,  for  my 
brief  operatic  experience  in  Italy;  the  Savona 
and  Santa  Croce  appearances.  At  least  I  knew 
how  to  move  on  the  stage,  and  I  kept  repeating 
over  and  over  the  warning  of  Sabatini's  bari- 

192 


LONDON  OPENS  ITS  ARMS 

tone  friend,  Felici,  about  my  semaphorian  arms. 
I  shouldn't  appear  ridiculous,  that  was  sure ;  and 
if  my  voice  responded — well,  I'd  take  my 
chances. 

"Anyway,  I  should  have  a  chance  to  warm 
up  before  going  out  to  face  the  thousands  there 
in  front;  the  men  and  women  who  were  to  say 
'yes'  or  'no'  to  my  maiden  effort.  The  serenade, 
which  Turridu  sings  behind  the  curtain  before 
it  is  raised,  would  give  me  that  chance.  And 
presently  it  came.  I  got  the  signal,  the  harpist 
began  the  introduction  and  I  set  myself." 

John  stopped  at  that  climacteric  point  to 
maneuver  the  dory  into  its  berth  between  two 
rowboats  moored  just  to  one  side  of  the  float, 
which  gave  us  small  entering  space.  I  watched 
him  standing  before  the  wheel,  his  legs  well 
spread  and  firm  in  his  white  flannel  trousers  and 
two  massive  arms  showing  above  the  wheel.  He 
looked  the  fighter,  and  a  clean  one,  who  doesn't 
quit  under  fire. 

Wilkinson  made  the  Rocklea  fast,  and  we  clam- 
bered ashore.  On  the  way  up — Cyril  and  Gwen 
were  hurrying  ahead — McCormack  finished  the 
story. 

"For  a  second,  possibly  only  half  a  second," 
193 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

he  confessed,  "I  thought  I'd  die.  I  stood  look- 
ing at  the  harpist,  with  my  mouth  as  parched  as 
though  I'd  been  footing  it  through  a  desert. 
Then  to  myself  I  said,  'Old  boy,  you've  got  to!' 

"It  was  while  I  was  singing  the  serenade  that 
Mrs.  McCormack,  Miss  Foley  and  the  others  of 
the  party  entered  the  box.  Mrs.  McCormack 
told  me,  long  afterwards,  that  it  was  an  ordeal 
she  could  scarcely  endure. 

"The  rest  of  it  was  easy  enough,  as  debuts  go. 
I  guess  I'd  suffered  until  there  was  nothing  left 
in  me  to  suffer.  For  the  serenade  to  Lola  went 
fairly  well — so  the  people  and  management 
thought,  and  the  music  critics,  who  wrote  about 
the  performance  for  the  papers  of  next  day.  I 
had  steadied  before  having  sung  a  dozen  meas- 
ures of  the  serenade,  so  that  when  I  made  my  en- 
trance I  was  as  cold  as  ice.  Nor  do  I  exagger- 
ate ;  I  mean  just  that  ...  as  cold  as  ice. 

"But  the  tribute  which  I  thought  most  about, 
and  the  one  that  I  can  never  feel  enough  grati- 
tude for,  was  the  actions  of  my  singer-colleagues 
who  attended  that  performance.  To  my  per- 
sonal knowledge,  many  of  them  sacrificed  pay- 
ing engagements — besides  buying  places  for  the 

194 


LONDON  OPENS  ITS  ARMS 

opera — which  had  been  accepted  for  that  same 
evening. 

"A  sort  of  free-masonry  among  many  of  the 
singers  existed,  then,  in  London,  and  these 
'pals'  of  mine — they  were  that,  in  the  best  sense 
of  that  term — were  generous  enough  to  forget 
any  pecuniary  advantages  to  themselves  to  show 
their  good  will  toward  me,  and  to  want  to  be  in 
Govent  Garden  when  I  was  making  the  debut. 

"No  less  a  person  than  Neil  Forsyth,  business 
manager  of  Covent  Garden,  said  to  me:  'Mc- 
Cormack  you  did  splendidly  and  what  a  wonder- 
ful reception  you  got !  One  would  have  thought 
you  were  an  actor-manager!' 

"Everything,  that  night,  seemed  magnified. 
I  saw  with  a  clarity  of  vision  which,  I  presume, 
was  due  to  the  highly  sensitized  condition  of  my 
nerves;  and  my  hearing  was  the  same.  I  an- 
ticipated all  that  was  to  come:  every  musical 
phrase  and  word,  long  before  its  proper  mo- 
ment, and  every  action  the  role  demands  and 
each  gesture. 

"That's  about  all.  In  less  than  an  hour  and 
a  quarter  it  was  all  over.  They  told  me,  in 
my  dressing-room,  that  I  had  won.  I  was  rather 

195 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

tired;  but  happy.  I  cleaned  the  grease  paint 
from  my  face  and  got  into  my  street  clothes,  and 
with  Mrs.  McCormack  and  Miss  Foley  went 
home.  And  that  night  I  slept." 


196 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE   ARTIST    DEVELOPS 

Business  matters  having  called  me  to  New 
York  I  did  not  see  McCormack  again  for  several 
days.  It  was  an  afternoon,  in  late  July,  when 
I  descended  from  an  express  train  at  Stamford 
station;  the  third  day  of  Nineteen  Eighteen's 
first  hot  spell  on  the  upper  Atlantic  seaboard. 
I  chartered  a  "flivver"  and  away  we  darted,  to- 
ward Noroton  and  Rocklea,  some  eight  miles  off. 
.  John  was  seated,  alone,  on  the  veranda  when 
I  arrived,  looking  cool  and  unperturbed  in  tennis 
garb.  "So  there  you  are!"  he  said,  by  way  of 
greeting.  "What  made  you  pick  out  this  par- 
ticular day  to  come  out?"  he  demanded.  "I 
don't  feel  like  working." 

"I'm  sorry,  John,"  I  replied,  "but  there's 
much  copy  to  be  gone  over  before  we  mail  it  to 
the  publisher.  But  if  you're  feeling  lazy  sup- 
pose I  run  back  to  town." 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  he  rejoined, 
197 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

with  that  note  in  his  voice  which  one  always 
hears  there  when  he  fears  he  may  unintentionally 
have  hurt  another's  feelings.  One  must  travel 
far  to  find  a  softer  heart  than  John  McCormack's 
— or  any  so  generous. 

"All  right,"  he  commanded,  with  assumed 
gruffness,  "get  out  the  manuscript."  This  I 
did,  and  he  was  soon  deep  in  the  reading  of  it, 
lying  back  in  a  huge  porch-chair,  the  picture  of 
a  student  at  work.  From  time  to  time,  with  his 
pencil,  he  made  corrections:  changing  whole  sen- 
tences, rearranging  others,  adding  here  a  word 
and,  there,  striking  one  out.  At  other  points  he 
suggested  the  introduction  of  new  material, 
which  I  noted  on  paper.  Oh,  yes!  John  Mc- 
Cormack  is  more  than  singer.  He  wasn't  made 
Doctor  of  Literature  by  Holy  Cross  College,  in 
Nineteen  Seventeen,  on  the  strength  of  his  voice 
alone. 

Two  hours  of  this  and  the  task  was  finished. 
And  by  that  time  John  was  in  the  mood  for  more 
work. 

"We  left  off,  the  other  night,  at  the  Co  vent 
Garden  debut — didn't  we?"  He  lapsed  into 
silence  for  a  few  moments,  then  continued. 

"It's  a  wonderful  feeling  that  success  brings, 
198 


THE  ARTIST  DEVELOPS 

when  you've  worked  for  it.  And  rather  grati- 
fying to  be  able  to  read  about  it,  in  the  news- 
papers. That's  what  I  did,  the  morning  after  I 
'debuted'  at  Co  vent  Garden.  The  critics  were 
most  kind.  They  shared  the  view  that  I  had 
'arrived,'  and  expressed  an  interest  in  what  my 
future  efforts  should  bring  forth. 

"Do  you  grasp  that?  It's  the  secret  of  an 
artist's  forward  movement  towards  the  ultimate 
goal:  'So  far  so  good,  but  what  of  the  mor- 
row?' One  cannot  rest,  no  matter  how  fine  the 
achievement.  Good,  better,  best — and  after 
that  'best'  something  still  more,  that's  beyond. 
There  is  no  stopping-place  in  art.  For  the  more 
one  does  the  more  people  expect.  There  is  no 
rest  for  whoever  is  conscientious;  if  the  critics 
and  public  become  momentarily  satisfied  the 
artist  should  not  be.  So  we  go  on,  occasionally 
content,  but  never  for  more  than  the  briefest 
possible  time. 

"And  when  one  reaches  the  top  rung  in  the 
ladder  the  task  to  remain  there  is  harder,  much, 
than  the  climb.  The  slightest  jostle  destroys 
the  balance.  No!  The  life  of  a  singer,  if  he 
(or  she)  is  admitted  into  the  sacred  portals,  is 
not  easy — though  some  folks  mistakenly  fancy 

199 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

that  it  is.  You've  got  to  live  up  to  what  the 
people  feel  you  are  as  an  artist. 

"Mrs.  McCormack  and  I  read  carefully  the 
reviews  of  my  previous  evening's  performance 
and  then  discussed  our  own  opinions.  We  in- 
variably do  that.  Praise  is  pleasant  to  hear  or 
read,  but  it  never  helps  one  to  progress.  Criti- 
cism does  that;  the  kind  of  criticism  I  call  con- 
structive— which  builds  up,  and  never  tears 
down.  After  breakfast  I  went  out  for  a  walk, 
and  to  reflect. 

"As  I  have  just  said,  getting  to  a  desired  ar- 
tistic place  is  difficult  enough,  but  it  is  staying 
there  that  is  the  rub.  And  I  had  felt  that  once 
accepted  by  a  Covent  Garden  audience  I  could 
retain,  for  as  long  as  I  maintained  my  skill,  the 
good  will  of  each  audience.  This  was  the  mat- 
ter of  chiefest  concern,  just  then.  The  second 
and  third  and  fourth  appearances  would  decide. 
I  therefore  gave  myself  to  their  consideration. 

"My  second  Covent  Garden  role  was  The 
Duke,  in  'Rigoletto,'  which  was  to  be  performed 
with  a  cast  including  Luisa  Tetrazzini,  then  the 
rage  of  London,  as  Gilda,  and  Sammarco  in  the 
character  of  Rigoletto.  This  work  of  Verdi's, 
which  demands  that  the  tenor  be  able  truly 

200 


THE  ARTIST  DEVELOPS 

to  sing,  was  different  from  Mascagni's.  I 
had  heard  Mme.  Tetrazzini  for  the  first  time  in 
my  life  only  a  few  weeks  before  (it  was  her  first 
Covent  Garden  season)  and  the  opportunity 
which  brought  me  as  her  associate  in  the  lead- 
ing tenor  role  of  an  opera  was  enough  to  stir 
me,  if  nothing  else  had.  Her  kindness  to  me 
cannot  be  overestimated,  and  several  times  that 
night  she  would  encourage  me  with  a  word  or 
two,  just  as  Sammarco  did,  when  he  was  near. 
I  was  warmly  applauded  after  the  Duke's  famous 
aria,  La  Donna  e  Mobile,  and  my  portion  of  the 
quartette,  which  had  to  be  repeated,  elicited 
favorable  comment.  Tetrazzini  sang  superbly, 
and  Sammarco's  Rigoletto  (which  I  consider 
magnificent),  was  almost  incomparable. 

"I  was  far  less  nervous  throughout  this  per- 
formance than  during  the  'Cavalleria  Rusticana.' 
Its  music  was  my  sort  of  music,  peculiarly  suited 
to  my  voice  and  methods,  and  my  acceptance 
brought  me  greater  satisfaction  than  anything 
else  I  had  done.  It  seemed,  too,  to  remove  the 
last  vestige  of  lurking  doubt  within  me.  I  might 
vary  in  the  quality  of  my  endeavors,  but  I  was 
certain,  at  last,  of  my  capacities.  The  future 
lay  with  me,  wholly. 

201 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

"Self -confidence  (by  which  I  do  not  mean  ego- 
tism) I  had  now  acquired,  and  I  found  myself 
facing  each  audience  with  greater  assurance  and 
acquitting  myself  with  an  increased  freedom. 
So  when  the  third  opera  I  was  asked  to  sing 
that  season — 'Don  Giovanni' — arrived  I  was  per- 
fectly secure.  The  role  was  Don  Ottavio.  Of 
all  composers  Mozart  made  greatest  demands  for 
pure  singing  upon  the  artist,  but  what  a  joy  it  is 
to  sing  him!  He  cannot  evade  the  issue,  and 
woe  betide  the  one  who  has  no  cantilena  or  ele- 
gance of  style.  Mario  Sammarco,  the  baritone 
who  had  befriended  me  at  my  debut,  was  cast  for 
the  Giovanni  (a  role  in  which  I  have  always  been 
sorry  that  New  York  never  got  a  chance  to  hear 
him),  Lolla  Miranda  was  the  Zerlina,  and  Fely 
Litvinna  had  been  chosen  for  Donna  Anna.  The 
third  opera  out  of  the  way,  I  breathed  with  com- 
parative ease  once  more  and  said  a  silent  prayer 
of  thanksgiving. 

"Cyril  was  growing  fast  and  Mrs.  McCormack 
looked  a  girl  of  eighteen.  She  made  a  home  for 
us  and  gave  me  something  worth  working  for. 
Do  you  wonder  that  I  was  able  to  sing?  I  was  in 
a  jubilant  mood  constantly,  at  work  or  at  play, 
and  the  weeks  leaped  on,  bringing  fresh  experi- 

202 


THE  ARTIST  DEVELOPS 

ences  and  carrying  my  name  throughout  the  land. 

"My  operatic  work  was,  naturally,  the  most 
important,  but  I  had  plenty  to  do  besides.  The 
Arthur  Boosey  Ballad  Concerts  began  again  in 
the  fall  of  Nineteen  Seven  and  in  each  of  these 
I  sang,  with  steady  appreciation  of  the  audiences. 
Other  concert  engagements  came  to  me,  also,  and 
at  length  the  visits,  on  the  Harrison  programmes, 
to  Birmingham,  Leeds,  Glasgow,  Manchester, 
and  other  cities.  I  have  often  wondered  why 
some  cities  in  Ireland  were  not  included  in  the 
tour. 

"It  was  some  time  thereabouts,  that  the  se- 
quel occurred  to  my  experience  with  'Alphabet' 
Malone,  of  Daly's  Theatre.  George  Edwardes 
was  in  tenor  difficulties  again,  and  bemoaning  the 
scarcity  of  one  who  could  both  sing  and  act  when 
my  friend,  Gordon  Cleather,  who  had  taken  me 
to  Malone,  some  months  before,  happened  in. 
;  'If  I  could  only  get  the  man  I  want,'  sighed 
Edwardes. 

"  'Too  bad,'  sympathized  Cleather.  'I 
brought  you  just  the  chap,  but  Malone  couldn't 
see  him.' 

"Whereupon  Edwardes,  instantly  alert,  re- 
plied: 'Get  him  for  me.' 

203 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

'  'Sorry,'  answered  my  friend  languidly,  'but 
he's  singing  with  Tetrazzini  in  'Rigoletto'  at  Co- 
vent  Garden  to-night.' 

"It  was  not  long  after  that  incident  that  I  met 
George  Edwardes,  with  whom  I  finally  became 
intimately  acquainted.  Speaking  one  day  of  the 
amusing  refusal  of  Malone  to  engage  me  Ed- 
wardes verified  Cleather's  story  and  said:  'Had 
I  heard  you  at  that  time,  John,  I'd  have  been  will- 
ing to  sign  a  ten-years'  contract  with  you.' 

"Perhaps  it  is  just  as  well  that  we  didn't  meet. 
It  may  have  been  another  of  Destiny's  moves  to 
guide  me  in  the  direction  I  was  intended  to  go. 
For  had  I  appeared  at  Daly's  my  entire  career 
might  have  veered  off  in  another  direction. 

"I  was  going  along  rather  fast  during  that 
season.  I  studied  with  all  diligence  and  omitted 
nothing  which  might  strengthen  my  resources. 
There  is  everything  in  getting  a  good  start,  and 
I  resolved,  while  people  were  talking  about  me, 
to  profit  by  all  that  offered.  My  youth,  and  my 
sudden  rise  from  obscurity  into  Covent  Garden 
and  concert  popularity  in  a  few  months,  were 
topics  of  conversation.  There  were  pessimists, 
who  hinted  that  I  might  not  last,  but  their  small- 
ness  did  no  harm. 

204 


THE  ARTIST  DEVELOPS 

"My  fairy-godfather,  Sir  John  Murray  Scott, 
was  happy  over  what  had  come  to  me.  'There 
are  bigger  things  ahead  for  you,  my  boy,'  he 
would  say  to  me,  'so  neglect  nothing;  prepare 
for  them.'  His  influence  helped  me  incalcu- 
lably, and  the  example  he  himself  set.  It  meant 
something  just  to  be  near  him  and  hear  him  talk, 
not  alone  on  music,  which  he  thoroughly  knew 
in  all  its  branches  and  history,  but  on  the  kin- 
dred arts  and  on  politics,  science,  philosophy, 
finance  and  travel.  He  was  what  I  would  call 
a  well-informed  man,  one  well-traveled,  who  re- 
membered. 

"It  was  no  commonplace  task  to  satisfy  such 
a  man,  and  I  was  content  only  when  I  felt  that 
I  was  near  to,  if  not  completely,  satisfying  him. 
Sir  John  believed  in  shooting  at  a  high-hung  star, 
and  drilled  into  me  that  idea.  But  for  all  his 
task-mastership  he  wielded  no  iron  hand.  His 
way  was  to  lead  rather  than  to  drive ;  and  it  was 
also  his  way,  after  patient  observation  of  a  pro- 
tege, to  drop  him  if  he  showed  an  unwillingness 
to  respond.  That  was  all.  He  'sized'  a  man, 
to  use  a  colloquialism,  lightning  fast  and  gave 
him  a  fair  chance — but  no  more  than  that.  And 
the  gentleman,  unvaryingly;  it  was  inborn. 

205 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

"So,  you  see,  I  had  my  advantages." 

Two  small  dogs  drew  near:  one  a  sable-coated 
Pekinese  of  aristocratic  mien,  the  other  white 
and  woolly  with  a  waggish  air.  I  should  call 
him  a  John  T.  McCutcheon  dog,  for  he  was  that 
sort;  he  answered  to  the  name  Towser.  Go-Go, 
the  Peke,  stopped  a  few  feet  short  of  McCor- 
mack  and  disdainfully  sniffed  the  air. 

"A  queer  pup,"  confided  John,  "whose  friends 
are  mostly  of  the  kitchen.  But  Towser,  here,  is 
a  pal."  And  the  woolly  pup  wagged  his  roguish 
tail  at  this,  and  emitted  a  short  bark.  They 
were  off,  directly,  to  their  play,  and  the  tenor 
went  on  with  his  talk. 

"The  Harrison  concerts  were  interesting  that 
year,"  he  said,  "and  broadened  my  acquaintance 
with  audiences.  It  allowed  me  to  see  something 
of  other  cities  and  the  experience  helped.  In- 
cidentally, my  repertoire  grew  steadily  and  my 
musical  knowledge,  for  besides  studying  I  lost  no 
opportunity  to  hear  as  much  good  music  as  I 
could,  especially  that  for  the  orchestra.  And 
another  thing:  I  fussed  a  little  at  the  piano. 
For  I  realized  that  some  day  I  should  need  musi- 
cianship— which  few  singers  appear  to  feel  they 
care  to  acquire. 

206 


THE  ARTIST  DEVELOPS 

"Naturally,  I  met  many  people  ...  in  all 
walks  of  life.  I  liked  that  for  I  suppose  I  am 
what  Americans  call  'a  mixer.'  Apart  from  the 
interest  one  finds  in  new  acquaintances  a  friend 
or  two  occasionally  grows  from  them ;  and,  then, 
it  sharpens  the  wits.  Yes,  the  study  of  human 
nature  is  an  absorbing  thing. 

"When  spring  came,  in  Nineteen  Eight,  I  be- 
gan to  want  a  home  we  should  own,  one  wherein 
Mrs.  McCormack  and  I  might  feel  a  sense  of 
proprietorship.  It  was  right,  too,  that  we  take 
our  place  of  residence  in  a  community  befitting 
my  enhanced  position  and  amongst  those  whom 
I  now  met  with  some  frequency. 

"We  found,  at  last,  the  very  place  that  suited 
us.  It  was  in  Hampstead,  where  the  fresh  air 
was  just  what  Cyril  needed,  and  with  plenty  of 
foliage  about.  And  when  Gwen  was  born,  July 
21, 1908  (like  Cyril,  in  Dublin),  we  had  a  home 
of  our  own,  and  I  considered  myself  a  fortunate 


man.'' 


207 


CHAPTER  XV 

LONDON  AND  THE  SAN  CARLO,  IN  NAPLES 

"To  him  that  hath"  (or  as  McCormack's 
brother-in-law,  Tom  Bissette,  would  say,  "Much 
wants  more")  never  was  more  fully  exemplified 
than  in  the  case  of  John  McCormack.  One  suc- 
cess appeared  to  beget  another,  and  the  tenor's 
following  increased  steadily  and  his  friendships 
and  acquaintances,  too. 

The  fall  of  Nineteen  Eight  found  him  busier 
than  ever,  with  an  abundance  of  concerts  and 
his  second  Covent  Garden  season  looming  near. 
John  was  twenty-four,  an  accepted  artist  with  a 
widening  road  showing  ahead. 

Still,  he  had  yet  a  singing  honor  which, 
strangely  enough,  had  not  offered.  Vocally  and 
musically  one  of  the  most  admirably  equipped 
of  any  tenor  singing  oratorio,  he  had  never  ap- 
peared in  a  festival.  It  was  one  of  those  unex- 
plainable  circumstances  which  he  has  confessed 
his  inability  to  fathom. 

208 


LONDON  AND  NAPLES 

"There  was  enough,  however,  in  other  chan- 
nels to  occupy  me  as  fully  as  my  time  allowed. 
So  I  gave  the  matter  no  concern.  Yet  that  part 
of  my  career  is  peculiarly  blank.  Gervaise 
Elwes,  one  of  the  few  intellectual  tenors  in  the 
oratorio  field,  and  the  finest  interpreter  of  that 
difficult  music  which  Sir  Edward  Elgar  wrote 
in  'The  Dream  of  Gerontius'  for  tenor,  was  one 
of  the  foremost  artists  at  that  time.  Another 
was  John  Coates,  with  a  splendid  oratorio  style. 

"I  began  my  Nineteen-Eight  and  Nine  sea- 
son with  a  voice  that  was  gaining  in  power 
and,  people  said,  in  quality.  I  was  invariably 
careful  to  keep  within  the  limits  of  my  voice,  for 
I  always  have  felt  that  no  tone  is  proper  to  sing 
that  carries  a  power  which  mars  its  quality.  In 
other  words,  when,  to  secure  power,  the  natural 
beauty  of  the  tone  suffers  that  tone  is  not  right. 
I  have  tried  to  keep  to  that  rule,  and  when  a 
friend  once  asked  me  why  I  did  not  give  'more 
voice'  (he  was  a  singer)  I  replied  that  I  would 
be  singing  for  years  after  he  had  finished  his 
career.  My  words  have  since  proved  correct. 

"No,  there  is  nothing  in  the  so-called  'big' 
tone.  To  make  a  noise  for  sake  of  inducing  ap- 
plause is  not  singing,  and  certainly  far  removed 

209 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

from  artistry.  I  could  cite  numerous  instances, 
were  I  so  minded,  to  demonstrate  my  contention. 
Something  held  in  reserve  should  be  the  unde- 
viating  custom  of  every  singer,  not  alone  be- 
cause it  imparts  to  the  voice  the  most  agreeable 
quality  possible,  but  likewise  for  the  longevity 
of  the  instrument. 

"The  shouter  may  cause  a  tremendous  fuss 
among  certain  adherents  of  the  high  note  long 
held,  but  what  is  the  ultimate  cost?  A  ruined 
voice  often,  years  before  its  usefulness  should 
have  waned.  Nor  are  young  singers  the  only 
ones  who  should  respect  this  indisputable  fact. 
We  have  instances,  of  annual  occurrence,  of  sing- 
ers— especially  those  of  the  opera — who  have 
more  natural  voice  than  knowledge  of  its  correct 
use  who  fade  within  a  few  seasons,  and  fall  mis- 
erably. 

"I  was  fortunate  in  discovering  all  this  at  the 
outset  of  my  career.  Sabatini  preached  this 
vocal  gospel.  Sir  John  Murray  Scott  also  em- 
phasized it.  Other  valued  counselors  agreed 
that  such  a  course  was  the  wise  one.  So  I  ad- 
hered to  my  custom,  and  to-day  my  voice  is,  I 
think,  better  than  ever,  and  should  continue  to 
improve  until  the  day  I  decide  I  shall  retire — 

210 


LONDON  AND  NAPLES 

which,  by  the  way,  I  shall  do  while  I  am  at  the 
top  of  my  powers,  in  voice  as  well  as  in  my  in- 
terpretative resources. 

"My  second  Covent  Garden  season  witnessed 
strides  in  the  desired  direction.  I  had  added  to 
my  repertoire,  and  was  called  on  to  appear  in 
the  three  roles  I  had  first  learned,  and  several 
more  besides.  At  the  close  of  my  fourth  year  I 
had  sung  Turiddu,  The  Duke,  Don  Ottavio  and 
the  principal  tenor  roles  in  'La  Boheme,'  'Ma- 
dama  Butterfly,'  'La  Tosca,'  'La  Traviata,'  'Lucia 
di  Lammermoor,'  'Lakme,'  'Faust,'  'Romeo  and 
Juliet'  and  'The  Pearl  Fishers.' 

"One  does  not  gain  freedom  of  stage  routine 
in  a  few  performances.  The  easy  actor,  in  opera, 
is  not  too  often  encountered.  It  is  a  difficult 
matter — which  many  do  not  know  because  their 
intimacy  with  the  opera  singing  is  limited — to 
provide  an  adequate  dramatic  impersonation  of 
a  role  while  singing  it.  And  the  cause  is  due 
largely  to  the  lack  of  what  I  will  call  synchroniza- 
tion between  music  and  text;  the  pauses  in  the 
connective  of  phrases  which  destroy  the  possi- 
bility of  logical  dramatic  continuity  and  fre- 
quently place  an  artist  in  passivity  when  the  ac- 
tion should  not  be  arrested. 

211 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

"To  surmount  such  obstacles — which  is  less 
difficult  in  some  operas  than  in  others — requires 
long  and  arduous  training  before  the  public,  and 
a  talent  to  combine  acting  with  singing.  'Oper- 
atic' gestures  do  not,  as  the  expert  knows,  consti- 
tute dramatic  action,  and  never  will.  To  mould 
characterization  of  a  role  with  its  musical  side 
is  an  art,  a  many-sided  one,  and  has  few  masters. 
I  strove  to  acquire  it,  but  it  came  slowly — espe- 
cially in  that  second  year,  when  music  had,  of 
course,  to  be  the  main  thing. 

"But  I  got  on." 

"I  began  meeting,  more  and  more,  beginning 
with  the  season  of  Nineteen  Eight  and  Nine,  peo- 
ple who  were  personalities.  It  was  then  that  I 
was  presented  to  the  late  King  Edward  and  Queen 
Alexandra,  all  the  other  members  of  the  Royal 
Family  and  (then  and  later)  met  numerous 
sovereigns  of  other  countries,  princes  and  prin- 
cesses, persons  of  the  nobility  and  diplomatic 
corps  and  army  and  navy  attaches. 

"I  have  never,  for  some  cause,  experienced 
for  great  folk  any  particular  sense  of  awe;  and 
while  I  welcomed  my  opportunity  it  did  not  set 
my  head  awhirl.  They  were  sovereigns  for 
whom  I  entertained  respect;  the  Queen,  espe- 

212 


LONDON  AND  NAPLES 

cially,  being  a  personage  I  had  long  wanted  to 
meet.  And  it's  odd,  too,  how  that  desire  ap- 
peared to  have  some  basis — in  what  was  subse- 
quently realized.  For  it  was  to  be  my  good  for- 
tune to  see  the  womanly  side  of  Queen  Alexan- 
dra, and  to  discover  some  of  those  qualities  which 
have  endeared  her  to  her  people. 

"She  was,  as  most  of  us  know,  quite  hard  of 
hearing.  Yet  she  did  not  (at  least  at  that  time) 
make  use  of  mechanical  devices  which  accentu- 
ate a  weakened  hearing  sense.  I  recall  being 
presented  to  Queen  Alexandra  in  the  drawing- 
room  of  the  town  house  of  Lady  de  Grey,  March- 
ioness of  Ripon,  one  afternoon  in  the  winter  of 
Nineteen  Eight.  I  remember,  as  though  it  hap- 
pened only  yesterday,  the  entire  affair,  which  was 
one  of  the  many  for  which  Lady  de  Grey  was 
noted  and  which  no  other  hostess  in  London 
equalled. 

"With  her  attendants-in- waiting,  Queen  Alex- 
andra received  me;  seated,  and  with  a  smile. 
One  hears  the  word  'graciousness'  sometimes  ap- 
plied to  a  manner,  but  too  often  misapplied. 
Here,  however,  was  an  instance  where  it  per- 
fectly fitted,  for  the  Queen  was  gracious  in  the 
fullest  degree;  the  aristocrat  personified.  And 

213 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

yet  by  no  word  or  gesture  or  mannerism  did  she 
seek  to  impress  upon  one  her  rank  and  position. 
I  think  it  was  that  'to-the-manner-born'  air,  right- 
fully hers,  which  she  so  gently  wore  which  drew 
me  to  her.  She  could  not  be  other  than  the 
gentlewoman  she  was,  God  bless  her ! 

"By  inclination  I  am  democratic.  It  is,  to 
my  way  of  thinking,  what  one  is  and  does  that 
truly  counts.  But  I  admire  simplicity  in  those 
in  high  places ;  and  the  bigger  one  is  the  simpler 
that  person  should  be.  Queen  Alexandra  was 
such  a  woman,  and  it  became  her. 

"When  it  came  my  turn  I  sang  as  I  had  seldom 
sung,  up  to  that  time.  The  song  was  'I  Hear  You 
Calling  Me.'  Of  course  I  was  curious  to  hear 
what  she  would  say,  and  how.  It  would  be  some- 
thing complimentary — that  much  I  knew — but 
I  was  scarcely  prepared  for  her  particular  words. 
;  'I  go  often  to  Albert  Hall,  and  even  when  the 
band  plays  double- forte.,  I  scarcely  hear,'  she  said, 
with  a  smile  that  struck  me  as  wistful,  though 
uncomplaining.  'But  ...  I  heard  perfectly 
even  that  last  pianissimo  tone  of  yours.' 

"It  was  almost  pathetic,  and  my  eyes  grew 
misty.  Yet  I  managed  to  tell  her  how  grateful 
I  was  at  being  able  to  sing  so  that  she  could  hear 

214 


LONDON  AND  NAPLES 

— everything.  Just  think  of  having  to  miss 
hearing  all  the  beautiful  music  there  is  to  hear 
because  of  such  a  physical  misfortune.  If  I 
were  to  have  to  choose  between  deafness  and  loss 
of  sight  (please  God  it  may  never  be  either)  I 
should  rather  be  blind. 

"It  was  a  distinguished  assemblage  at  that 
musicale  of  Lady  de  Grey's ;  large  and  composed 
of  men  and  women  who  were  leaders,  in  every 
walk  of  life  that  counted.  They  all  were  most 
attentive,  too,  when  an  artist  was  performing. 
Maggie  Teyte,  the  soprano,  and  Gilibert,  whose 
death  a  few  years  ago  took  away  a  true  man  as 
well  as  a  great  artist,  and  I  provided  the  music 
on  that  occasion.  Gilibert  was  incomparable  in 
his  interpretation  of  songs,  and  everyone  knows 
Miss  Teyte's  skill. 

"That  experience  has  always  remained  vividly 
in  my  memory. 

"There  were  others,  at  about  that  time,"  he 
continued,  "and  they  had  their  interesting  fea- 
tures. Some  were  out  of  the  ordinary.  All  the 
while  the  weeks  slipped  by,  and  one  evening,  at 
Covent  Garden,  Mario  Sammarco  came  to  me. 
'  'Giovanni,'  he  said,  'what  you  do  in  March?' 
It  was  a  pregnant  question,  and  I  asked  my  bari- 

215 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

tone  friend  what  he  meant  by  it.  He  explained 
that  if  I  chose  I  might  have  an  engagement  to 
sing  at  the  spring  opera  season  to  be  given  at 
the  San  Carlo,  in  Naples. 

"I  was  keen  to  go.  Italy  still  remained  an  un- 
proved field  for  my  abilities,  and  at  that  stage 
of  my  development  I  believed  that  if  ever  Italians 
would  accept  me  this  would  be  the  time.  The 
honorarium  was  satisfactory — one  thousand 
francs  a  performance — so  I  accepted  Sammarco's 
offer. 

"On  the  way  Mrs.  McCormack  and  I  stopped 
off  at  Milan,  to  see  my  old  maestro,  Sabatini. 
We  were  both  overjoyed  at  meeting  again,  and 
Sabatini  made  a  great  fuss  over  Mrs.  McCor- 
mack. After  matters  had  quieted  I  took  out  my 
bill-fold.  'Let  me  see,'  I  said,  'two  hundred 
francs  (forty  dollars),  that  was  the  amount  for 
the  last  two  months  of  tuition,  wasn't  it,  maes- 
tro?9 

"And  what  do  you  think  Sabatini  asked? 
...  He  wanted  to  know  if  I  could  conveniently 
spare  it. 

"With  his  next  breath  he  began  berating  me 
for  sending  him  so  many  pupils.  For,  as  it  had 
happened,  my  tone-production  had  elicited  in- 

216 


LONDON  AND  NAPLES 

quiries  as  to  who  my  master  had  been,  and  when 
I  recommended  Sabatini — and  I  did  recom- 
mend him,  you  may  be  sure — students  flocked 
to  his  place.  Incidentally,  while  we  are  on  this 
matter,  I  once  had  the  novel  experience  of  being 
pointed  to  by  a  celebrated  English  teacher  of 
voice  as  a  perfect  specimen  of  'how  best  to  sing.' 
'I  did  not  show  him,'  said  this  man,  'but  the  way 
he  sings  is  the  right  way.' 

"Before  he  would  talk  on  the  many  matters 
of  common  interest  to  us  both,"  laughed  John, 
"Sabatini  insisted  I  should  have  a  lesson.  'The 
bad  habits,'  he  said  insinuatingly,  'I  will  see  if 
you  have  formed  them.'  And  for  half  an  hour 
he  stripped  my  voice  bare. 

"Then  he  appeared  satisfied.  That  I  had 
gone  on  in  the  way  he  hoped  I  might  go  gave 
him  inexpressible  delight.  One  or  two  things 
he  did  not  approve,  and  frankly  said  so.  But 
when  he  had  finished  with  me  I  gathered  fresh 
confidence  in  myself;  for  the  dangerous  period  in 
my  vocal  career  had  been  safely  passed,  and  I 
believed  that  a  continuance  of  those  same  meth- 
ods would  guard  my  tone-production  in  the  fu- 
ture. 

"Madame  Sabatini  came  into  the  studio 
217 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

then,  to  play  while  I  sang  operatic  arias  the  maes- 
tro insisted  he  must  hear.  He  let  me  finish  each 
one;  then  we  would  discuss  it:  Sabatini  sug- 
gesting changes  which  I  instantly  recognized 
would  add  to  their  interpretative  value.  We 
had  several  hours  of  this,  and  I  finished  a  wiser 
singer  and  a  better  one. 

"It  is  that  way,"  explained  the  tenor,  "that 
the  artist  is  made.  And  the  greatest,  even  at 
their  zenith,  have  always  some  things  to  learn. 
For  myself,  I  am  never  quite  satisfied.  My  ar- 
tistic desire  is  invariably  just  beyond  my  reach; 
and  no  public  applause  or  written  critical  opin- 
ion can  compensate  for  what,  in  my  heart,  I 
know  to  be  short  of  my  goal.  I  know  I  can  never 
reach  the  ideal  I  have  set  myself. 

"However,"  he  exclaimed,  "that  is  straying 
from  the  issue. 

"Mrs.  McCormack  and  I  reached  Naples  in 
good  time,  and  went  to  the  Excelsior  Hotel,  and 
from  our  windows  had  a  clear  view  of  Mt.  Ve- 
suvius. I  was  fit,  yet  misgivings  that  I  should 
not  duplicate  my  Covent  Garden  success  dis- 
turbed my  quietude.  I  knew  what  Italians  like 
in  a  tenor  voice,  and  the  kind  of  singing  by  which 
they  measure  an  artist." 

218 


LONDON  AND  NAPLES 

"You  didn't,  as  I  recall." 

"Your  memory  serves  you  well,"  responded 
John.  "There  was  no  furore;  no  'bis'  calls  or 
cries  of  'bravo!'  The  Duke  in  'Rigoletto'  was 
the  first  role  I  sang.  The  impresario  said  I  could 
not  have  done  it  better;  a  finished  performance, 
he  called  it,  in  every  respect.  And  I  got  ap- 
plause, oh,  yes,  I  got  that — from  those  who  rec- 
ognized singing  when  they  heard  it.  What  I 
didn't  get  was  an  ovation,  which  was  the  thing 
I  had  desired,  above  all  else. 

"But  there  is  something  I  must  tell  you 
about,"  he  observed.  "It  was  unique;  the  only 
experience  of  its  kind  in  my  career — the  hiring  of 
a  claque  and  subsidizing  of  music  critics." 

"You  did  that?" 

"I  did  .  .  .  and  it  cost  me,  for  that  San 
Carlo  engagement,  twelve  hundred  and  fifty 
francs." 

"Two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars!  Why  did 
you  do  it?" 

"Persuasion — that  it  was  the  customary  thing 
to  do,  and  that  refusal  to  follow  precedent  would 
injure  my  chances.  I  wanted  success.  I 
wanted  a  fair  chance  to  win  it;  and  I  also  felt 
justified  in  using  all  the  factors  which  other  sing- 

219 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

ers — tenor  singers — had.  I  wished  no  undue 
advantage ;  but  I  did  wish  an  even  break.  Hav- 
ing that  I  knew  I  should  have  to  be  satisfied  (so 
far  as  Italy  was  concerned)  with  my  deserts. 

"It  was  the  first  time,  and  likewise  the  last, 
that  I  availed  myself  of  what  many  opera  singers 
regard  as  a  'privilege.'  The  hirelings  compris- 
ing the  claque  probably  did  their  work.  And 
the  newspapers  spoke  well  of  my  singing.  But 
I  was  displeased  with  the  transaction — 'dis- 
gusted' is,  probably,  the  better  word.  For  the 
system  is  insincere,  to  put  it  in  the  mildest  term." 

McCormack  touched  upon  a  subject,  when  he 
brought  up  the  claque,  which  has  been  widely 
discussed  (in  America,  especially)  for  many 
years.  New  York,  more  than  any  other  city,  has 
felt  its  influence  and  opera  patrons  have  voiced 
their  protests  openly  and  with  vehemence.  Dur- 
ing the  last  few  seasons,  newspapers  have  had 
objections  to  make  to  this  unfortunate  system 
which,  as  McCormack  correctly  says,  is  a  men- 
ace to  both  artists  and  public. 

"But  apart  from  the  undesirable  methods  of 
some  of  these  paid-to-make-applause  agents,  the 
very  existence  of  such  applause  is  an  insult  to  an 
intelligent  audience,  and  invariably  an  annoy- 

220 


LONDON  AND  NAPLES 

ance  which  should  prompt  any  far-sighted  im- 
presario to  stop  it  at  once.  And  any  singer  who 
hires  a  claque  is  either  misled,  quite  ignorant 
of  the  unfortunate  position  thereby  caused,  or 
else  so  engrossed  with  ego  as  to  be  blind  to  the 
evil  consequences. 

"The  state  of  never  knowing  when  one  is  do- 
ing well  or  ill,  which  is  immediately  created 
when  a  singer  has  a  claque  'out  in  front,'  should 
prompt  the  singer  who  believes  in  the  claque  to 
consider  the  matter.  The  competent  and  sin- 
cere singer  needs  no  claque.  The  average  au- 
dience is  able  to  ascertain  for  itself  the  es- 
timate of  an  artist.  Nor  should  anyone  hold  any 
delusion  about  fooling  several  thousand  persons 
by  injecting  a  brand  of  made-to-order  applause 
in  the  hope  of  having  it  sound  spontaneous. 

"Any  claquer  will  unhesitatingly  state  that  he 
can  instantly  'spot'  the  claque  at  work;  not  only 
its  precise  location  in  an  auditorium,  but  each 
location  and  how  many  claquers  comprise  each 
group.  Audiences,  who  have  now  had  experi- 
ence enough  with  this  sort  of  thing,  have  also  be- 
come expert  in  detecting  this  false  applause. 

"So,  if  we  analyze  it,  the  claque  is  very  evi- 
dently useless,  in  addition  to  being  a  nuisance, 

221 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

and  defeats  its  purpose  by  drawing  to  the  artist 
paying  for  it  condemnation  for  employing  such 
practice  rather  than  the  admiration  which  is  de- 
sired. 

"Finally,  if  an  artist  be  serious  and  honest 
with  himself,  he  will  surely  prefer  to  take  his 
chances.  With  an  acknowledged  position  his 
recognition  is  reasonably  certain.  And  should 
the  exception  now  and  again  occur  why  descend 
to  the  petty  procedure  of  hiring  a  few  rough- 
visaged  persons  with  large  hands  to  make  a  noise? 
Suppose,  once  in  a  season,  the  applause  of  an 
audience  does  not  completely  satisfy?  What 
difference  does  it  make,  so  long  as  the  singer's 
artistic  soul  is  pleased?" 

With  everything  McCormack  has  said  I  agree. 
So  do  thousands  of  others.  And  in  the  course  of 
time  the  claque — in  America,  anyway — will  be  a 
thing  of  the  past. 

"I  wouldn't  have  missed  the  San  Carlo  en- 
gagement— for  what  it  brought — for  more  than  I 
can  name.  Before  returning  to  London  I  had 
conferred  upon  me  one  of  the  great  honors  of  my 
career;  an  honor  bestowed  personally  by  Pope 
Pius  X,  which  I  shall  recount  directly. 

"I  felt  tired  when  the  San  Carlo  engage- 
222 


LONDON  AND  NAPLES 

ment  came  to  an  end,  in  April  of  Nineteen  Hun- 
dred Nine.  I  had  sung,  besides  the  opening 
opera,  in  'Traviata'  and  'Rigoletto,'  and  ap- 
peared on  the  same  stage  with  some  excellent 
singers  and  my  artistic  resources  were  the  better 
because  of  the  experience. 

"It  was  early  April  when  Mrs.  McCormack  and 
I  departed  for  Rome — with  our  friends,  Mary 
Anderson,  her  husband,  'Tony'  Navarro,  and  the 
two  Misses  Scott,  sisters  of  Sir  John,  and  his 
brother  Walter,  who  made  up  our  party." 


223 


CHAPTER  XVI 

POPE    PIUS    X    CONFERS    A    BLESSING 

The  children — Cyril  and  Gwenny — had  gone 
to  bed.  Though  eight-thirty  o'clock  in  the  eve- 
ning (according  to  the  hour  of  daylight-saving 
plan  then  in  vogue)  it  was  sixty  minutes  earlier, 
by  the  sun;  and  that  planet  still  hovered  in  the 
sky.  A  breeze  blew  up  from  the  Sound  to 
where  Mrs.  McCormack  and  I  sat  on  the  veranda. 

Miss  Foley  was  busy  elsewhere;  John  had 
matters  of  consequence  which  had  called  him  to 
his  writing-desk,  and  so  Mrs.  McCormack  and  I 
waited  until  the  others  should  join  us. 

I  was  pleased  that  it  was  so,  for  Mrs.  Mc- 
Cormack— usually  silent  as  to  her  husband's 
achievements — was  disposed  to  speak  about 
them. 

"I  should  like,  almost  better  than  anything  I 
know,"  she  said,  "to  have  the  public  appreciate 
how  earnest  John  is."  She  glanced  over  at  me, 
and  smiled — almost  longingly.  So  far  as  one 

224 


POPE  PIUS  X  CONFERS  A  BLESSING 

might  infer,  Mrs.  McCormack  had  everything  her 
heart  wished:  a  devoted  husband,  two  children, 
the  consciousness  of  honors  well  won,  health  for 
all  near  to  her,  and  the  goods  of  the  world  in 
abundance.  It  would  have  been  a  perfectly  nat- 
ural assumption  to  regard  John's  position  as 
made;  his  earnestness  with  respect  to  his  art 
something  to  be  taken  for  granted.  Yet  that 
wish — it  interested  one. 

"What  makes  you  question  such  a  thing? 
Have  you  forgotten  his  Boston  Symphony  ap- 
pearances? His  Beethoven?  And  the  pro- 
grammes at  Boston?  Even  his  average  pro- 
grammes ;  take  any  one  of  them,  with  their  light- 
est ballads  .  .  .  which  mean  so  much  to  hun- 
dreds of  thousands!"  For  I  am  not  at  one  with 
some,  who  have  failed,  as  yet,  to  probe  the  func- 
tion of  the  simple  song,  and  what  it  does  for  the 
majority. 

Mrs.  McCormack  brightened,  I  thought,  at 
this,  and  nodded  her  head. 

"I've  forgotten  none  of  those  things,"  she  re- 
plied; "perhaps  it  is  an  over-conscientiousness 
about  John,  which  I  always  have.  He  has  it, 
too.  Possibly  it's  contagious."  She  laughed 
merrily  at  this.  "But — everyone  should  know" 

225 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

(she  was  very  positive  on  this  point)  "that  John 
is  thinking,  striving  constantly,  for  his  audiences. 
And  that  he  bends  his  life  to  what  he  believes 
they  want  and  expect  of  him.  Many  people  do 
know;  which  makes  me  anxious  that  it  should 
be  unanimous." 

I  explained  that  unanimity,  in  art,  was  an  un- 
attainable thing,  to  which  she  agreed.  And  this 
wish,  it  seems  to  me,  is  one  which  should  be  em- 
phasized. No  person  knows  John  McCormack 
as  Mrs.  McCormack  knows  him,  so  that  what  she 
says  about  her  husband's  earnestness  should  be 
passed  along,  from  one  to  another,  and  reiterated 
until  the  whole  world  knows. 

"He  has  three  things  in  life,"  continued  Mrs. 
McGormack,  in  an  unexpected  burst  of  confi- 
dence: "His  family,  his  Catholic  faith,  and  his 
art.  To  each  one  his  allegiance  is  complete; 
John  never  does  a  thing  by  halves.  So,  for  the 
benefit  of  those  who  go  to  hear  him  sing  and 
who  derive  comfort  from  his  singing,  I  should 
be  happy  to  have  them  know  what  I  know. 

"I  have  no  doubt  that  it  was  meant  that  he 
should  perform  the  public  service  which  he  is 
performing.  That  is  the  reason,  and  the  only 
one,  why  I  let  him  go  on  his  long  tours — when  I, 

226 


(Above)     John  McCormack  and  his 
"  little  Indian,"  Gwenny 

(Below)     Driving  his  own  car 


(Above)     Out  of  doors  at  Noroton. 
At  heart  he  is  still  a  boy 

(Below)     "  Shoot  them  over  I  I'm 
ready ! " 


POPE  PIUS  X  CONFERS  A  BLESSING 

and  the  children,  feel  the  need  of  him  here  at 
home.  It  is  the  reason,  too,  why  I  dread  the 
day  when  he  must  curtail  the  fatiguing  journeys, 
and  the  work,  and  the  preparation  which  wears 
him  in  mind  and  body.  You  comprehend,  don't 
you,  how  anxious  I  am  that,  doing  this  work,  the 
sincerity  back  of  it  should  be  felt  by  every  sin- 
gle soul?" 

John  could  not  very  well  have  told  me  that. 
So  I  was  glad  that  Mrs.  McCormack  had  spoken, 
in  just  that  quiet  way  of  hers — the  expressed 
hope  of  a  wife  who  has  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder 
with  her  husband  from  the  beginning  of  his 
career,  and  gone  on  up  with  him  to  the  top. 

The  screen-door  slammed  just  then,  and  John 
came  outside. 

"A  little  ride  in  the  Cyril"  (the  McCormack 
power-boat)  "would  be  a  cooling  excursion, 
don't  you  think?"  he  demanded.  We  thought 
so,  and  Miss  Foley,  appearing  at  that  mo- 
ment, did,  too.  So  we  walked  to  the  pier,  got 
aboard  and  were  soon  scooting  out  into  the  Sound. 

It  was  late  when  we  got  back,  with  a  full  moon 
and  many  stars  in  the  sky.  Not  a  night  for  sleep, 
if  one  were  talkatively  inclined  and  a  listener  were 
near.  So  when  Mrs.  McCormack  and  Miss 

227 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

Foley  left  us  John  and  I  sat  by  ourselves  on  the 
veranda,  no  sounds  save  the  locusts'  calls  falling 
upon  our  ears.  I  kept  my  eye  on  the  glow  of 
John's  cigarette;  it  was  growing  duller,  a  sign 
that  his  mind  was  becoming  active.  After  a 
time  he  began. 

"It  was  9  o'clock  on  Holy  Thursday  morning 
of  one  of  those  perfect  Italian  spring  days,"  said 
the  tenor,  in  a  lowered  tone,  "that  we  set  out 
from  our  hotel  in  Rome  to  the  Vatican.  In  this 
center  of  learning,  the  home  of  Italy's  aristocrats 
and  the  gravitating  place  of  diplomats  the  world 
over,  we  passed  along:  Mrs.  McCormack,  Mary 
Anderson,  the  Misses  Scott,  Mr.  Scott,  'Tony' 
Navarro  and  I — a  group  of  pilgrims  wending  our 
way  to  that  glorious  edifice  wherein  the  Princes 
of  the  Church  assemble  and  plan  for  Christian- 
ity's good.  And,  as  custom  decreed,  we  men 
wore  full  evening  dress,  the  women  in  black,  with 
veils. 

"I  had  thought  often  of  such  a  journey;  from 
the  schooldays  in  Athlone  on  through  the  various 
phases  of  my  life,  in  its  hours  of  trials  and  joys. 
There  was  the  intense  blue  of  an  Italian  sky  over- 
head, a  blue  which  almost  gave  to  the  atmosphere 
a  transparency  to  the  eye,  and  from  the  buildings 

228 


POPE  PIUS  X  CONFERS  A  BLESSING 

as  we  passed  along  there  were  cast  now  and  again 
across  our  path  varying  shadows. 

"The  day,  had  we  picked  it,  could  not  have 
been  more  suitable  to  the  occasion.  For  maj- 
esty stalked  everywhere,  while  all  about  us  there 
seemed  to  breathe  'Peace  on  Earth,  Good  Will 
toward  Men.'  I  had  never  seen  the  Vatican. 
But  from  photographs  I  recognized  it,  quickly 
enough,  as  we  approached. 

"Our  visit,  of  course,  had  been  made  known 
to  the  Holy  Father,  in  a  propitious  way.  Inter- 
cession in  our  behalf  had  come  from  distin- 
guished dignitaries:  Monsignor  Fraser,  Presi- 
dent of  the  Scotch  College,  and  Monsignor  Bis- 
letti.  And  that  knowledge  buoyed  me,  though  I 
entered  the  portals  with  the  others  with  trepida- 
tion and  a  feeling  of  numbness  about  my  legs 
that  made  them  dully  heavy.  For  here  I  was,  at 
last,  at  the  fountainhead  of  the  Church;  a  soli- 
tary soul,  and  diffident,  yet  eager  to  push  on  and 
clutching  faintly  at  a  hope  I  felt  to  be  slipping, 
now  that  I  drew  near. 

"It  was  the  one  moment  in  all  my  life,  until 
now,  that  awe  seized  and  held  me.  The  majesty 
of  the  Church  and  all  it  represents  pervaded  the 
interior  of  the  outer  room  where  we  all  stood. 

229 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

Others  must  have  noticed,  for  directly  the  major- 
domo  came  over  to  us  with  an  air  of  friendly  in- 
tercession and  asked  what  he  might  do. 

"Miss  Anderson  and  her  husband,  who  knew 
the  Holy  Father,  spoke  to  the  major-domo,  who, 
after  showing  us  to  seats,  departed  to  a  large 
doorway  beyond — a  doorway  leading  into  the 
sacred  chamber  wherein  the  Holy  Father,  Pope 
Pius  X,  then  was. 

"I  cannot  refrain  from  attributing  what  oc- 
curred to  that  unwavering  Irish  Catholic  Faith  to 
which  I  hold,  and  which  has  been  my  solace  in 
many  a  weary  hour,  for  sitting  there  I  said  three 
silent  'Hail  Marys'  to  the  Mother  of  Mt.  Garmel, 
my  patroness,  and  wished  that  it  might  be  my 
honor  and  privilege  to  kneel  before  Pope  Pius  X 
and  receive  his  blessing  in  his  private  room. 
And  strangely,  too,  Mrs.  McCormack,  at  that 
same  moment,  held  similar  thoughts  in  her  mind. 
And  then  .  .  ." 

I  sat  very  quiet. 

".  .  .  Monsignor  Semper,  private  secretary 
to  Pope  Pius  X,  came  through  the  door  I  sat 
fixedly  watching,  and  straight  over  to  where  we 
sat.  I  could  not  have  moved,  had  my  life  de- 
pended upon  it,  to  rise  at  that  moment.  I  was 

230 


POPE  PIUS  X  CONFERS  A  BLESSING 

able  only  to  sit  erect  and  stare,  aware  all  the 
time  of  his  nearing  approach,  until  he  stood  above 
me,  smiling. 

'The  Holy  Father,'  he  said  in  a  rich  voice, 
'will  be  pleased  to  receive  you,  Mr.  McCormack, 
and  your  friends.' 

"For  the  life  of  me  I  could  not  restrain  the 
subconscious  feeling  of  my  own  insignificance  as, 
following  the  secretary,  I  went  with  our  party 
through  the  doorway  and  inside  that  room. 
Some  little  distance  away,  on  his  dais,  he  sat ;  all 
in  white,  the  visual  sanctification  of  what  he  rep- 
resented :  His  Holiness,  Pope  Pius  X. 

"Never  had  I  seen  such  a  beautiful  face.  It 
was  oval,  but  though  seamed  with  fine  lines  and 
a  bit  drawn  through  the  illness  from  which  he 
was  then  grievously  suffering,  in  every  feature 
one  saw  reflected  the  kindness  of  a  great  soul. 
His  hair  was  very  white  and  very  long,  and 
brushed  straight  back  so  that  it  touched,  at  its 
farthest  ends,  his  collar.  On  the  back  of  his 
head  was  his  little  succhetto  and  about  his  neck 
a  gold  chain  and  a  cross. 

"I  have  said  that  he  was  all  in  white,  and  so 
he  was.  And  his  robes  were  a  sort  of  wool,  edged 
with  white  moire  silk,  and  about  his  waist  he 

231 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

wore  a  wide  sash  similarly  trimmed.  He  seemed 
to  me,  and  I  have  always  so  thought  of  him  since, 
as  the  saintly  and  simple  white  father  of  Christen- 
dom. The  Holy  Father  sat  there  as  his  secretary 
led  us  towards  him,  quite  erect  and  looking  out 
of  eyes  that  were  almost  too  bright.  I  think  his 
power  of  will  had  much  to  do  with  keeping  him 
out  of  his  bed. 

"He  greeted  Mary  Anderson  and  'Tony'  Na- 
varro,  first,  then  the  rest  of  us,  as  we  knelt  before 
him  in  a  semi-circle. 

6  'Oh,'  he  said,  in  a  low  but  wonderfully  mu- 
sical voice,  'and  so  this  is  our  tenor.'  Miss  An- 
derson had  spoken  my  name,  swiftly,  and  then 
stepped  to  one  side.  I  stood  there,  mute  for  the 
moment,  unable,  it  appeared,  to  do  more  than 
to  feast  my  eyes  upon  that  beautiful  face,  which 
held  me  (only  one  word  adequately  expresses  it) 
enthralled. 

"Then,  with  the  rarest  of  smiles,  the  Holy 
Father  extended  his  hand  to  me — a  hand  white 
almost  to  transparency,  with  the  veins  showing 
blue  along  its  back.  I  took  it,  with  the  tips  of 
my  fingers,  kissed  it  and  the  ring  of  St.  Peter  on 
his  finger. 

"And  as  I  knelt  there,  emotions  racing  through 
232 


POPE  PIUS  X  CONFERS  A  BLESSING 

my  Irish  blood  such  as  it  is  beyond  my  powers 
to  even  attempt  to  describe,  Pope  Pius  X  blessed 


me." 


I  was  not  surprised  when  John  ceased  speech 
then.  The  last  part  of  his  description  had  been 
voiced  somewhat  haltingly;  lengthy  pauses  be- 
tween words,  as  though  he  saw  himself  living 
over  again  that  experience.  The  tenor's  head, 
too,  had  fallen  slightly  forward,  so  that  his  chin 
rested  close  to  his  chest.  Now  he  sat  there,  in 
that  attitude,  intensely  quiet  and  with  no  sign  of 
life  other  than  the  breathing  which  moved  his 
big  shoulders. 

"I  rose,"  he  finally  said,  "unutterably  happy. 
I  remembered  nothing  clearly  after  that ;  only  of 
moving  with  the  others  and  reaching  the  outer 
room,  where  we  had  waited. 

"The  Holy  Father  followed  soon  afterward. 
And  I  saw  him  stop,  on  his  way  to  the  general 
audience,  in  each  of  four  rooms  that  partly  sur- 
round his  own,  to  speak  to  different  people  who 
were  waiting  for  him,  and  to  bestow  upon  them 
his  blessing  as  head  of  the  greatest  of  churches, 
and  the  beloved  of  three  hundred  millions  of 
faithful  souls. 

"I  am  emotional,  and  I  could  no  longer  re- 
233 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

tain  my  self-control.  I  wept  .  .  .  and  was  un- 
able to  proceed,  for  nearly  half  an  hour. 

"We  did  not  leave  the  Vatican,  then,  either; 
for  there  were  the  art  treasures  to  be  viewed  and 
other  things  of  historic  appeal  to  us.  I  could  not 
hurry;  each  canvas  and  the  objets  d'art  held 
something  more  to  me  than  artistic  value.  Even 
those  of  less  splendid  mastery  than  others  were 
hallowed,  to  my  eyes. 

"So  we  finally  came  away. 

"It  was  nearly  noon  when  we  walked  down  the 
Vatican  steps.  But  I  did  not  bring  myself  back 
to  the  modern  world  until  evening.  Mrs.  Me- 
Cormack  can  tell  you;  she  felt  as  I  did." 


234 


CHAPTER  XVII 
LONDON'S  RECOGNITION  BROADENS 

The  tide  was  in  at  seven  that  morning,  and  I 
went  across  Rocklea  lawn  towards  the  pier  for  a 
before-breakfast  swim.  I  was  on  the  string- 
piece  before  I  caught  sight  of  a  head,  a  couple 
of  hundred  yards  out  in  the  Sound,  and  heard  a 
hail — John  McCormack's,  unmistakably,  even  at 
that  distance. 

I  dove  and  stroked  my  way  towards  the  tenor, 
who  was  amusing  himself  in  small-boy  fashion: 
treading,  duck-diving,  cavorting  about  with  an 
assortment  of  swimming  strokes  and  varying  all 
this  by  occasionally  interjecting  an  imitation  of  a 
sea-lion's  roar — which  makes  a  noise  if  you  catch 
the  water  just  right  with  the  lips. 

"Nine  pounds  under  top-weight,  this  morn- 
ing," announced  John  gleefully;  "ten  minutes 
more  of  this,  then  breakfast  and  on  to  the  gym- 
nasium. Whereupon  the  tenor  allowed  himself 
to  sink  beneath  the  water,  and  I  sprinted  off  to 
escape  the  ducking  I  knew  threatened. 

235 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

John  reappeared  presently,  with  a  grin  of  dis- 
appointment spread  on  his  tanned  face.  "You 
moved,"  he  charged  goodnaturedly,  after  which 
we  gave  ourselves  to  the  swim. 

Breakfast  over  I  went  to  the  study  while  John 
drove  to  the  gymnasium  of  tortures  for  two  hours 
of  hand-ball  and  gruelling  physical  effort  that 
terminated  in  kneading  that  I  am  told  feels  like 
being  run  over  by  a  steam-roller. 

It  was  two  o'clock  before  the  McCormack 
schedule  brought  him  to  me  and  our  purpose  of 
those  days. 

"The  single  memento  of  that  visit  to  the  Va- 
tican," he  remarked,  "was  a  medallion  of  St. 
Cecelia,  which  Pope  Pius  X  had  blessed.  I've 
carried  it  ever  since."  And  zealously,  it  would 
appear,  for  it  is  on  his  person  during  every  wak- 
ing hour  and  never  does  he  make  a  professional 
appearance  without  that  medallion  carried  in  his 
pocket,  at  the  end  of  his  watch-chain. 

"It  had  been  a  glorious  trip,  to  Italy,  but  home 
is  always  home  and  Mrs.  McCormack  and  I  were 
not  sorry  when  we  were  in  our  Hampstead  abode 
once  more.  The  Covent  Garden  Grand  season 
was  near,  and  I  set  to  work  to  prepare  for  my 
part  in  it. 

236 


LONDON'S  RECOGNITION  BROADENS 

"The  winter  had  been  an  eventful  one,"  he 
went  on,  and  as  the  desire  for  reminiscence 
seemed  strong  I  was  glad  to  have  him  indulge  it. 
Thus  far  he  had  said  little  about  the  celebrities 
he  had  met  at  the  London  homes  he  had  visited. 
With  his  thoughts  traveling  in  the  direction  of 
those  experiences  I  concluded  he  would  recall 
some  interesting  incidents  to  relate. 

"For  so  young  a  man,"  said  John,  "I  was  for- 
tunate. My  artist  colleagues  were  all  my 
seniors.  To  be  included  with  them  in  the  invita- 
tions to  notable  homes  was  something  to  appre- 
ciate. For  every  such  occasion  enlarged  my  list 
of  acquaintances.  Occasionally  it  yielded  me  a 
steadfast  friend. 

"Lady  de  Grey's  place — Combe  Court,  it  was 
called,  at  Kingston-on-Thames — always  held  at- 
tractions. Only  the  most  successful  artists  were 
asked  to  participate  in  the  musicales,  and  I  was 
not  unmindful  of  the  honor  when  such  an  invita- 
tion was  extended  to  me.  At  first  finding  my- 
self in  the  midst  of  so  many  distinguished  per- 
sonages (as  they  were  pointed  out  to  me,  one 
after  another) ,  I  felt  abashed.  It  was  my  intro- 
duction to  members  of  the  royal  family,  and  of 
the  peerage,  and  to  personalities  I  knew  about 

237 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

but  never  had  beheld  at  close  range.  So  my  dif- 
fidence, I  daresay,  was  natural  enough.  There 
has  to  be  a  beginning,  with  every  one. 

"But  during  those  first  seasons  at  Co  vent 
Garden  the  experience  widened;  nearly  every 
one  was  considerate  of  me,  and  I  profited  by  these 
opportunities  to  mingle  with  men  and  women 
who  were  of  some  account  in  the  world.  Fine 
minds  there  were,  too,  among  them;  and  not 
many  who  were  so  engrossed  with  themselves  as 
to  be  inconsiderate. 

"A  magnificent  type  of  man  was  Prince  Fran- 
cis, of  Teck,  brother  to  Queen  Mary, — magnifi- 
cent, physically;  nearly  six  feet-three,  with  the 
patrician's  features,  formed  like  an  Apollo  and 
with  the  gentlest  nature  and  most  democratic 
ways.  You  felt  him  the  thoroughbred  the  mo- 
ment he  came  near.  He  radiated  strength  and 
authority,  in  the  way  one  will  who  is  born  to  it. 

"I  recall,  often,  his  offhand  manner  of  speech 
to  me  at  various  meetings  in  different  London 
homes.  On  one  occasion,  referring  to  some  im- 
portant topic  of  the  hour,  he  remarked: 
'Doesn't  it  make  your  Irish  blood  boil,  McCor- 
mack?  It  does  mine.' ' 

The  tenor  stretched  himself  in  his  chair,  patted 
238 


LONDON'S  RECOGNITION  BROADENS 

one  of  the  dogs  who  nosed  his  arm,  and  emitted 
a  short  laugh. 

"What's  the  row?"  I  demanded. 

"I  was  thinking  of  an  experience  I  once  had, 
singing  for  the  late  King  Edward.  It  was  at  the 
United  States  Ambassadorial  residence,  then  oc- 
cupied by  Whitelaw  Reid.  Lillian  Nordica  and 
I  were  the  singers  at  that  musicale;  I'll  always 
have  that  experience  to  put  me  in  good  humor 
when  I  feel  the  need  for  it. 

"Mme.  Nordica  sang  first,  and  mighty  well; 
she  was  an  artist.  But  when  she  rejoined  me, 
just  outside  the  music-room,  she  was  convulsed. 
She  was  some  moments  in  controlling  her  mirth, 
the  cause  of  which  I  was  impatient  to  learn. 

"  'Never  mind,  John,'  she  said,  'you'll  dis- 
cover for  yourself,  soon  enough.  'Twould  be  a 
pity  to  spoil  it.' 

"I  left  her,  with  a  curious  feeling,  and  en- 
tered the  music-room  and  walked  over  to  the 
piano.  King  Edward  and  a  group  of  men  stood 
together,  near  one  window.  Though  I  fancied 
they  had  seen  me  come  in  and  prepare  for  my 
first  number  none  gave  me  the  slightest  attention ; 
they  couldn't  do  so,  out  of  deference  to  his  Ma- 
jesty, who  continued  talking  in  a  very  loud  tone. 

239 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

"I  waited;  but  the  talking  still  continued.  I 
should  have  stood  there,  silent,  for  a  long  time 
had  not  the  accompanist  prompted  me  to  pro- 
ceed. 

"  'But  the  King?'  I  queried. 

"  'Will  stop  his  talk  when  you  begin  singing 
.  .  .  possibly.' 

"So  I  started.  And  straight  through  to  the 
end  I  sang  that  song,  which  never  made  the  least 
impression  on  King  Edward.  He  maintained 
his  conversation,  in  a  very  loud  voice ;  and  when 
I  had  finished  he  was  still  talking.  He  is  dead, 
now,  and  I  don't  wish  to  appear  disrespectful; 
yet  I  cannot  refrain  from  remarking  upon  the 
difference  between  his  attitude  towards  an  artist 
and  that  of  Queen  Alexandra. 

"Those  were  wonderful  days,  though,"  said 
the  tenor,  with  a  smile.  They  developed  many 
friendships,  which  have  lasted.  Mary  Ander- 
son was  one. 

"I  can  see  her,  now,  that  first  afternoon  when 
she  recited  to  me,  entire,  Shakespeare's  address 
to  the  players.  Think  of  that  privilege !  I  did 
not  immediately  grasp  what  the  composition  was, 
nor  what  it  meant  to  be  her  exclusive  auditor. 
But  as  she  went  on  and  on,  with  her  superb  elo- 

240 


LONDON'S  RECOGNITION  BROADENS 

quence  and  power,  I  caught  the  spirit  and  began 
to  appreciate.  She  was  in  smiles,  at  the  end; 
for  she  had  seen  how  moved  I  had  been. 

"  Such  experiences  leave  upon  a  nature  like 
mine  something  of  an  impress.  I  did  not  get 
over  the  effects  of  that  reading  of  Mary  Ander- 
son's for  weeks.  At  intervals,  and  in  the  most 
unexpected  places,  phrases  of  that  address  would 
return  to  me — heard,  almost,  as  if  that  superb 
artist  herself  had  appeared  suddenly  before  me 
and  declaimed  them. 

"She  is  what  we  hear  mentioned,  often,  as  a 
womanly-woman.  The  better  one  gets  to  know 
her  the  more  this  is  revealed.  She  has  mentality 
and  all  the  sensitiveness  of  the  artist,  with  the 
most  lovable  ways  imaginable.  And  wonderful 
eyes — that's  the  word:  'wonderful.'  Tony  Na- 
varro  is  a  fortunate  man ;  and  I  am  proud  to  count 
him  my  friend.  Yes — they  are  an  exceptional 
couple. 

"There  were  few  of  the  notable  London  homes 
which  I  was  not  lucky  enough  to  enter  at  these 
musicales  I  describe.  The  Duchess  of  Marl- 
borough's,  the  Duchess  of  Manchester's,  the 
Duke  of  Portland's,  the  Aga  Khan's  and  numer- 
ous others — embassies  of  the  different  countries 

241 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

among  them.  The  Dowager  Empress  of  Russia, 
Queen  Alexandra's  sister,  was  one  of  the  illustri- 
ous personages  I  was  honored  in  meeting;  and 
the  King  of  Portugal  .  .  .  and  hosts  of  others. 

"There  was  one  affair  which  continued, 
throughout  an  evening,  with  most  of  the  guests 
(to  say  nothing  of  the  artists)  in  smiles.  It  was 
given  by  the  Aga  Khan  of  India — a  sort  of  Pope, 
I  believe,  in  his  country.  There  was  scarcely 
a  minute  during  the  soiree  that  he  did  not  walk 
to  and  fro,  in  a  pair  of  shoes  that  squeaked  with 
each  step  he  took  like  small  animals  protesting 
in  a  cage. 

"But  that  was  all  in  the  day's  work.  What 
meant  far  more  to  me  were  the  hours  spent  with 
my  good  friends :  Sir  John  Murray  Scott,  and  his 
charming  sisters ;  Neil  Forsyth,  General  Manager 
of  Covent  Garden  (poor  chap,  he  was  accidentally 
drowned,  in  Nineteen  Fourteen) ,  Mary  Anderson 
and  Tony  Navarro. 

"Theirs  was  an  influence  which  any  man  might 
have  been  glad  to  feel  and  profit  by.  I've  no 
doubt  each  one  helped  me  immeasurably  during 
that  period  of  my  life,  and  career,  to  steer  a 
straight  course.  They  say  that  a  man  is  known 
by  his  associates ;  he  progresses,  or  retrogresses, 

242 


LONDON'S  RECOGNITION  BROADENS 

according  to  the  quality  of  those  associates.  So 
you  may  see  what  advantages  were  mine.  For 
when  a  man  goes  out  into  the  world  it  remains 
for  him  to  attract — quite  as  much  as  to  choose, 
for  choice,  alone,  will  not  always  suffice — the 
right  sort  of  friends.  Up  to  that  point  it  is  the 
influence  of  the  parents  which  counts;  his  up- 
bringing. Thereafter,  it  is  with  the  man  .  .  . 
or  woman. 

"However — I'll  not  philosophize  further. 

"That  spring  of  Nineteen  Hundred  Nine  was 
auspicious.  Covent  Garden  was  preparing  for 
a  gala  performance  to  be  given  in  honor  of  Presi- 
dent Fallieres  of  France,  and  I  was  among  those 
chosen  to  participate.  It  was  a  distinguished 
occasion,  and  the  attendance  composed  of  the  no- 
bility, members  of  the  various  foreign  diplomatic 
corps,  army  and  navy  officers  and  attaches  and 
other  persons  of  importance  in  London.  I  shall 
later  describe  the  second  Covent  Garden  gala  per- 
formance in  which  I  took  part,  given  two  years 
later  in  honor  of  the  coronation  of  King 
George  V. 

"Mrs.  McCormack  left  for  Dublin  soon  after 
this  gala  performance;  and  on  the  21st  of  July,  I 
received  news  of  the  arrival  of  a  baby  girl,  no 

243 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

less  a  person  than  your  young  friend  Gwendolyn 
herself." 

The  words  were  barely  uttered  when  Gwen  ap- 
peared, sprang  into  her  father's  lap  and  smiling 
across  at  me  proceeded  to  impress  John  McCor- 
mack  with  the  fact  that  he  was  her  particular  and 
personal  property. 


244 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

HAMMERSTEIN,    CAMPANINI   AND    AMERICA 

There  is  a  short  man  of  whom  newspaper  men 
have  been  wont  freely  to  write  who  threw  his 
shadow  across  the  path  of  John  McCormack  in 
the  spring  of  Nineteen  Hundred  Nine.  He  wore 
a  moustache  and  a  pointed  beard  then,  as  now, 
and  mostly  upon  his  head  a  top  hat  famed  for 
its  caricaturing  by  cartoonists,  whose  facile  pen- 
cils tilted  it  at  rakish  angles  over  a  rotund  face 
distinguished,  chiefly,  by  the  humor  lighted  by 
two  very  bright  eyes. 

America  might  name  him  from  this  descrip- 
tion alone.  But  lest  others,  who  know  him  less 
intimately  than  New  Yorkers,  be  impatient  to 
learn  just  who  is  meant  we  will  supply  the  in- 
formation: Oscar  Hammerstein. 

Hammerstein,  the  astute;  Hammerstein,  the 
resourceful;  Hammerstein,  than  whom  no  clev- 
erer impresario  ever  signed  a  contract,  or  fed 
an  opera-going  public  upon  the  best  to  be  had. 

245 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

A  fighter,  who  made  the  enemies  a  good  fighter 
will;  a  familiar  figure  in  the  courts  of  law,  but 
to  those  he  liked  and  to  those  who  gave  him  their 
loyalty,  a  staunch  friend. 

"The  greatest  tragedy  that  ever  befell  musical 
New  York,"  declared  McCormack  with  convic- 
tion, "was  when  the  Manhattan  Opera  House 
closed  its  doors  in  Nineteen  Hundred  Ten." 
Countless  others  feel  the  same  way  in  that  matter. 
There  was  only  one  Oscar;  there  never  can  be 
another. 

Cleofonte  Campanini  had  gradually  come  to 
discover  qualities  in  the  singing  of  John  Mc- 
Cormack that  roused  his  admiration.  Like 
other  uncommon  men,  Campanini  was  not  afraid 
to  change  his  mind.  The  young  Irish  tenor  had 
developed  since  he  had  reached  Covent  Garden, 
and  in  him  Campanini  (who  was  Hammerstein's 
first-conductor  and  musical  advisor)  began  to 
discern  a  candidate  for  possible  honors  across  the 
seas.  He  spoke  to  Oscar  of  McCormack,  at  the 
close  of  the  Manhattan's  1908-1909  season — 
on  the  verge  of  departing  for  Covent  Garden  to 
assume  his  conductorship  duties  there  beginning 
with  the  gala  performance  in  honor  of  President 
Fallieres  which  has  been  described. 

246 


HAMMERSTEIN  AND  CAMPANINI 

"Hear  him,  at  all  events,"  counseled  Cam- 
panini,  and  sailed. 

"I  was  not  unprepared,  when  I  met  Hammer- 
stein,"  said  John.  "Campanini  had  told  me, 
'The  Manhattan  would  just  suit  your  voice,  and 
I  want  you.  But  before  we  sign  let  us  wait  for 
Oscar.  He  will  arrive  soon.' ; 

Gwen  McCormack  clambered  down  from  her 
father's  knees  and  John  watched  her  scamper  off 
with  the  dogs,  on  some  errand  of  joyous  youth. 

"I  was  drawn  at  once  towards  Hammerstein," 
admitted  the  tenor.  "He  was  a  'different'  sort 
of  impresario.  He'd  heard  me  before  we  met — 
at  a  Covent  Garden  performance — and  had 
formed  his  opinion. 

"Some  time  later  I  was  told  of  a  remark  he 
had  made  concerning  me. 

'With  that  voice,'  said  Oscar,  'and  his  Irish 
name — what  a  career  he  could  have  in  concerts.' 

"That's  what  I  call  scoring  a  bull's-eye.  He 
had  vision,  Oscar  Hammerstein.  I  doubt  if  he 
stopped  to  analyze.  He  just  sensed  a  thing,  in 
that  instantaneous  way  of  his;  and  generally  he 
was  right.  And  I  should  like  to  say  that  no 
keener  judge  of  an  artist  lives  than  Oscar  Ham- 
merstein. He's  unerring. 

247 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

"I  was  introduced  to  him  by  Campanini,  at 
Covent  Garden  after  a  rehearsal.  He  wore  his 
famous  top  hat,  and  from  his  mouth  protruded 
one  of  his  almost  equally  famous  cigars — doubt- 
less one  of  his  own  hand-manufacture,  a  practice 
he  indulged  in  even  when  the  distracting  business 
of  running  an  opera  house  occupied  most  of  the 
twenty-four  hours  of  each  of  his  days. 

"Hammerstein  had  an  ingratiating  personality. 
Magnetic,  he  was,  and  straightforward.  And  I 
shall  never  cease  to  be  grateful  to  him  for  the 
opportunities  he  so  freely  gave  me.  'Well, 
Mike,'  he  would  say,  'what  do  you  think;  can 
you  do  it?  Yes?  All  right,  go  ahead.'  So 
brief  a  conversation  as  this  would  settle  the  ques- 
tion of  a  new  role,  and  fill  me  with  confidence 
to  sing  a  dozen. 

"We  didn't  spend  much  time  over  negotiations. 
Campanini  offered  me  a  three  years'  contract, 
(which  was  already  drawn  and  only  awaited  Os- 
car's signature)  with  a  salary  of  seven  hundred 
dollars  a  week  for  the  first  season,  eight  hundred 
a  week  for  the  second,  and  twelve  hundred  and 
fifty  for  the  third  season.  And  I  accepted  the 
offer." 

A  haze  had  begun  to  vaporize  things,  creep- 
248 


HAMMERSTEIN  AND  CAMPANINI 

ing  with  imperceptible  stealth  as  John  had  talked 
so  that,  in  my  attentiveness  to  the  tale,  I  had 
taken  no  notice.  My  host  was  settled  comfort- 
ably in  a  wicker  easy-chair,  his  face  pillowed 
against  one  fist,  his  eyes  seeing  nothing  imme- 
diately thereabouts.  I  let  my  gaze  traverse  from 
the  now-hidden  waters  of  the  Sound,  impatient 
for  the  resumption  of  conversation. 

"Substantial  fees  had  been  my  lot  that  sea- 
son," said  John.  "In  those  desirable  London 
homes  I  received,  for  my  singing,  considerably 
more  than  the  fifty  guineas  which  those  incom- 
parable artists  Mario  and  Grisi  had  received  to- 
gether for  such  services — and  I  saw,  with  my 
own  eyes,  a  cheque  for  one  of  these  concerts. 
Then  there  was  the  concert  which  I  was  instru- 
mental in  giving,  for  the  benefit  of  the  survivors 
of  the  Messina  disaster — held  in  Albert  Hall — 
which  netted  seven  hundred  pounds.  Repre- 
sentatives of  all  the  diplomatic  corps  were  pres- 
ent, and  the  orchestra  (at  the  special  request  of 
Queen  Alexandra)  played  Elgar's  Tomp  and 
Circumstance.' 

"The  acceptance  of  Hammerstein's  American 
operatic  offer  was,  as  I  explained  to  him,  de- 
pendent upon  my  being  able  to  arrange  with 

249 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

the  Harrison  concert  management  for  the  can- 
cellation of  appearances  then  prepared  for  me 
for  the  approaching  autumn.  I  was  glad  when 
I  was  informed  that  this  could  be  done.  It  left 
the  way  clear,  and  I  began  to  speculate  upon  the 
future. 

"That  first  visit  to  the  United  States,  five  years 
before,  had  left  an  unfortunate  impression. 
My  treatment  was  not  a  thing  easy  to  forget. 
But,  I  argued,  'The  St.  Louis  Fair  isn't  New 
York,  and  matters  probably  will  take  a  different 
turn.' 

"Sir  John  Murray  Scott  agreed  that  the  Ham- 
merstein  contract  was  one  to  accept.  His  coun- 
sel always  was  sound.  Even  in  those  early  Co- 
vent  Garden  days  he  had  reminded  me :  'Caruso 
has  a  Caruso  style,  Mario  had  a  Mario  style — 
do  you  cultivate  a  McCormack  style.  Do  not 
imitate  another,  no  matter  how  great  he  may  be 
nor  how  much  he  may  do  that  appeals  to  your 
tastes.  Be  original,  and  with  your  resources 
you  will  become  a  personality  yourself.' 

"Now,  in  my  mental  perturbation,  I  found 
solace  in  the  assurances  of  Sir  John.  Listening 
to  him  talk  I  found  apprehensiveness  waning; 
and  other  friends,  in  their  views  of  the  proposed 

250 


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/       4 


HAMMERSTEIN  AND  CAMPANINI 

American  engagement,  coincided  with  Sir  John. 

"I  took,  at  that  period,  to  evening  strolls  near 
my  Hampstead  home,  and  during  one  of  them 
stopped  a  stranger  to  ask  him  for  a  match.  It 
was  a  trivial  enough  incident,  which  I  soon  for- 
got. I  had  no  suspicion,  even,  that  the  stranger 
knew  who  I  was ;  but  it  seems  that  he  did.  For 
three  years  later,  during  a  summer  visit  to  Hamp- 
stead I  received  this  letter." 

The  tenor  handed  me  the  communication,  un- 
signed as  to  name,  and  bearing  the  date  July  23, 
1912.  It  was  so  unusual  that  I  suggested  that 
it  be  incorporated,  in  facsimile,  in  this  book. 

"There  was  much  to  do  before  the  date  of  de- 
parture for  New  York,"  explained  McCormack. 
"I  had  numerous  friends  to  take  farewells  of, 
realizing  that  they  could  not  safely  be  de- 
layed until  last  moments.  And  there  was  the 
gathering  together  of  such  things  as  one  would 
require.  In  the  midst  of  the  London  part  of 
that  task  I  received  a  request  from  the  Odeon 
Phonograph  Company  to  confer  with  their  ex- 
ecutives. 

"They  wanted  me  to  make  some  records,  at 
terms  thoroughly  satisfactory,  and  I  signed  a 
contract.  About  this  time,  also  the  gentleman 

251 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

of  the  Gramophone  Company — the  one  who  had 
told  me  three  years  before  that  I  was  worth  noth- 
ing to  him — made  overtures.  But  I  was  in  no 
hurry,  or  need  at  the  time  for  funds,  so  I  put  him 
off.  Other  offers,  of  record-making,  I  likewise 
sidetracked.  Then  I  went  to  Dublin. 

"Gwen  was  chubby  and  healthy,  Cyril  had 
grown  into  a  sturdy  youngster  of  two  and  Mrs. 
McCormack  was  unspeakably  happy.  For  a 
week  we  let  nothing  interfere  with  our  visit.  I 
became,  altogether,  a  man  of  family;  willing  to 
forget  songs  and  singing  in  those  closest  to  me. 
It  was  a  week,  also,  of  gradual  mental  readjust- 
ment; of  calls  from  friends,  who  discovered  (as 
friends  will,  intuitive-fashion)  that  I  had  re- 
turned, and  who  came  to  talk  and  gather  the 
latest  news  from  London. 

"Then  followed  my  trip  to  Athlone. 

"I  never  go  there — to  this  day — that  the 
sight  of  familiar  spots  does  not  bring  tears  to 
my  eyes.  I  had  played  football  here,  and  there 
had  a  fight  with  one  of  my  rivals,  while  in  vari- 
ous places  (as  I  walked  along  toward  the  Mc- 
Cormack home)  some  incident  of  my  youth  re- 
enacted  itself — to  my  momentary  pleasure  or  sor- 
row. 

252 


HAMMERSTEIN  AND  CAMPANINI 

"Scores  of  people  stopped  me,  wrung  my  hand 
till  it  tingled,  and  demanded,  in  those  few  mo- 
ments I  was  then  able  to  spare,  accounts  of  what 
had  befallen  me  since  I  had  last  been  home. 
There's  nothing  like  such  home-coming  greet- 
ings— from  Tom,  Dick  and  Harry ;  the  old  crowd, 
which  has  known  you  since  you  were  a  kid  and 
is  just  as  happy  in  your  success  as  you  are  your- 
self. 

"But  I  got  on,  after  such  interruptions,  and 
at  length  went  through  the  gate  and  up  to  the 
front  door.  Mother  grabbed  me  first,  then  my 
sisters.  Father  and  Jim  came  in  at  noon-time, 
for  lunch,  and  we  held  a  pow-wow,  which  ended 
with  my  telling  all  the  details  of  the  Hammer- 
stein  engagement. 

"But  those  times  came  to  an  end — all  too  sud- 
denly. 

"Embarking-time   arrived.     With  Mrs.   Mc- 
Cormack,    I   went   aboard   the    steamship,    on 
October  fifteenth,  Nineteen  Hundred  Nine,  in 
Queenstown.     And  on  that  day,  our  friends  wav- 
ing to  us  from  the  dock,  we  sailed  away — west- 
ward.    I  felt  my  throat  catch  as  the  shore  faded, 
becoming  at  last  a  mere  fringe  on  the  horizon. 
'What,'  I  asked  myself,  'is  in  store  for  me?' 
253 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

"That  night,  in  solitude,  I  paced  the  deck  of 
the  great  liner.  Stars  rose  in  the  clear  sky 
and  a  brisk  wind  whipped  disquietude  from  my 
thoughts  and  brought  tranquillity.  Thus  heart- 
ened I  went  below,  to  my  cabin  and  rest." 


254 


CHAPTER  XIX 

MANHATTAN  OPERA  HOUSE  DEBUT 

"Enterprise,"  assured  McCormack  to  me  one 
cool  day  which  succeeded  those  of  oven-like  heat 
which  sent  July,  1918,  on  its  backward  way, 
"will  always  be  associated,  for  me,  with  those 
tireless  and  keen-scented  men  of  the  daily  press. 
They  are  marvels  of  energy,  as  well  as  of  inquisi- 
tiveness,  and  with  faculties  of  divination  I  never 
could  solve.  With  their  corkscrew  methods  they 
extract  from  one's  mind  more  than  he  suspects 
lies  there,  and  next  he  knows  he  reads  it  in  print. 

"The  trip  to  New  York  from  Queenstown  was 
uneventful.  The  usual  ship-concerts,  in  which 
I  appeared;  the  daily  deck- walks,  the  lolling  in 
chairs,  meals,  a  bit  of  gossip  and  sleep.  One 
day  was  but  a  repetition  of  another  that  pre- 
ceded :  the  routine  of  life  at  sea  aboard  a  modern 
liner,  and  that  infinite  space  which  met  the  eye 
when  one  looked  away  from  her.  To  me  there  is 
something  sublimely  majestic  about  the  ocean; 
a  suggestion  of  mysterious  power.  But  it  did 

255 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

not  exert  itself  during  our  five-days'  run.  We 
had  good  weather  and  a  propitious  voyage.  I  re- 
call no  musician  of  distinction  among  my  fellow 
passengers,  other  than  Gustav  Mahler — who  kept 
much  to  himself. 

"Coming  up  New  York  bay  those  same  scenes 
I  had  first  beheld  five  years  before  reappeared. 
Their  mental  effect,  however,  was  different.  I 
was  to  an  extent  sophisticated ;  less  the  green  lad 
from  the  Emerald  Isle  with  teeth  uncut.  Shortly 
came  the  ships-news  reporters,  with  their  inves- 
tigating minds. 

"Treading  American  soil  again  I  felt  a  thrill. 
My  physical  objective  was  reached,  another  link 
in  the  chain  of  my  career  about  to  be  forged. 
Into  a  cab — this  time  a  taxi — I  put  Mrs.  Mc- 
Cormack,  and  the  driver  whirled  us  off,  towards 
the  Hoffman  House,  at  Broadway  and  Twenty- 
fifth  Street,  where  our  quarters  were  in  waiting. 

"I  fell  quickly  into  the  way  of  things,  for  I 
am  an  adaptable  animal.  For  a  few  days  Mrs. 
McCormack  and  I  suffered  the  pangs  of  home- 
sickness in  their  severe  stage.  But  they  gradu- 
ally disappeared.  The  marvelous  energy  of  the 
people  one  met  in  the  streets,  which  had  not  so 
impressed  me  at  my  first  American  visit,  was 

256 


MANHATTAN  OPERA  HOUSE  DEBUT 

rather  startling.  There  were  times  when  this 
physical  violence,  this  rushing  of  persons  past 
one  with  set  mouths  and  staring  eyes,  was  un- 
nerving. They  epitomized  the  exhaustless  ag- 
gressiveness of  the  nation;  a  horde  of  humans 
competing  ruthlessly  with  one  another,  seeking 
their  goals  which  they  seemed  bent  on  having 
or  dying  in  the  attempt.  I  dare  not  think  what 
might  have  happened  had  it  been  my  fate  to  clash 
with  them  in  their  mad  scramble  for  the  attain- 
able. I  was  glad  that  my  course  lay  in  quieter 
places,  though  the  struggle  there,  if  less  out- 
wardly violent,  is  nevertheless  a  fight. 

"I  suppose,"  mused  the  tenor,  "it  is  largely 
as  our  feelings  incline.  Still,  I  cannot  repress, 
every  time  I  find  myself  in  a  business-bent  New 
York  crowd,  that  sudden  feeling  of  pity  for  those 
I  see  buffeting  past.  For  in  every  group  there 
is  one  failure;  some  man  or  woman  struggling 
vainly  against  odds — unable  to  win,  yet  plodding 
doggedly  on." 

With  his  description  of  all  this  John  had  grown 
restless.  I  noticed  his  big  hands  clench  until 
the  muscles  of  his  forearms  flexed  in  huge  ridges. 
His  mouth,  too,  had  a  firmer  line,  and  those  smil- 
ing Irish  eyes  narrowed.  I  was  not  surprised. 

257 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

McCormack  cannot  see  others  suffer  without  ex- 
periencing suffering  himself.  He's  strong  and 
rough  enough,  with  the  rough  and  strong;  who 
can  take  as  well  as  give,  when  hard  knocks  come. 
But  underneath,  if  you  look,  you  will  find  a  sen- 
sitive heart — that  beats  for  the  oppressed,  for 
the  sad  and  the  weak. 

No  one,  deserving  help,  ever  goes  for  it  in 
vain  to  John  McCormack.  It  is  natural  for  him 
to  lend  others  a  hand.  And  if  you  would  probe 
the  real  McCormack  you  must  be  near  him  when 
he  reads  some  letter  from  a  little  old  lady  some- 
thing like  the  following,  written  in  New  York  in 
1915. 

"Dear  Mr.  McCormack: 

"As  I  am  a  little  old  woman  with  hair  as  white 
as  snow,  and  you,  thank  Heaven !  are  a  very  young 
man,  it  seems  to  me  that,  at  the  ending  of  your 
season  here,  I  might  try  to  express  my  heartfelt 
appreciation  of  your  recitals  in  New  York.  I 
have  joyfully  attended  them  all — have  asked  ap- 
preciative friends  to  go  with  me  and  I  have  sent 
many  who  have  gratefully  told  me  of  their  delight. 
For  us  all,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  this  has 
been  a  winter  heavily  shadowed  by  sorrow  and 
anxiety  for  others.  I  have  found  my  greater 
pleasure  at  your  concerts;  on  Sunday  afternoon 

258 


MANHATTAN  OPERA  HOUSE  DEBUT 

I  shall  listen  to  the  last  note  that  you  sing,  with 
a  delight  that  I  find  in  your  every  song,  but  with 
the  keenest  regret  that  we  must  wait  so  long  be- 
fore we  can  hear  you  again. 

"All  along  my  life — abroad  and  in  this  coun- 
try— I  have  heard  the  greatest  singers  of  many 
lands  sing  in  their  prime,  many  of  them  ballads 
and  songs  that  you  give  us.  But,  for  myself, 
they  have  never  been  as  flawless  and  satisfying. 
With  the  beautiful  voice  is  the  perfect  reading 
— the  right  value  and  clear  enunciation  of  each 
word  and  new  values  given  to  many  words.  For 
instance,  I  have  never  heard  a  singer  give  to  the 
word  'repose'  that  sense  of  peaceful  rest,  deeply 
desired,  that  you  give  to  this  word.  In  her  youth 
I  heard  Patti  give  to  the  word  'alone'  a  depth 
and  pathos,  unusual  in  her  singing — a  sense  of 
utter  loss  and  desolation  that  I  can  still  distinctly 
recall. 

"I  could  select  many  words  whose  value  has 
been  enriched  and  deepened,  as  you  have  sung 
them.  If  anyone  should  say  to  me:  'I  should 
like  to  read  simply  and  appealingly,  giving  a 
sense  of  beauty  and  richness  of  the  English  lan- 
guage— to  whom  shall  I  turn?'  I  should  say: 
'Go  to  every  concert  that  Mr.  McCormack  gives 
— you  can't  hope  to  sing  as  he  does  but  you  can 
learn  from  him  to  read  as  you  desire.' 

"If  you  had  no  singing  voice  left, — and  far  in- 
deed mav  that  evil  day  be ! — I  should  still  go  to 

259 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

hear  you  read  your  songs  and  for  that  alone  I 
believe  you  would  still  gather  throngs.  As  for 
the  singing  itself,  I  will  say  that  you  could  sing 
the  shoes  off  my  feet  and  I'd  never  know  they 
were  gone  (I've  a  strain  of  Irish  blood,  you  see). 

"If  I  were  a  young  woman  I  could  not  send  you 
this  letter.  It  is  one  of  the  few  compensations 
of  age,  that  one  can  say  and  do  as  one  pleases. 
But  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  early  youth,  I 
could  not  have  the  deep  enjoyment  of  your  sing- 
ing that  I  have  at  this  late  hour,  when  I  know 
fully  the  cares  and  sorrows  and  losses  that  life 
can  bring. 

"Young,  with  perfect  health,  with  a  rich  en- 
dowment in  so  many  directions  and  with  your  dear 
ones  around  you  to  give  you  peace  and  joy  and 
rest,  you  know  of  sorrowful  things  only  through 
the  sure  intuitions  given  to  an  artist's  soul — may 
you  and  yours  never  learn  of  them  in  any  other 
way! 

"Believing  that  all  generous  natures  rejoice  in 
giving  pleasure  through  their  gifts,  I  feel  sure 
that  you  will  understand  my  wish  to  express  my 
deep  appreciation  and  hearty  thanks,  as  I  have 
tried  to  do  here,  for  what  has  been  one  of  the 
greatest  joys  of  my  life.  Someone  said  to  me 
yesterday — CI  hope  that  his  marvelous  success 
may  not  turn  Mr.  McCormack's  head.'  I  said: 
'It  never  will  if  he  is  really  great.  Mr.  Edwin 

260 


MANHATTAN  OPERA  HOUSE  DEBUT 

Booth  whose  success  came  in  his  early  youth, 
said  to  me  not  long  before  his  death:  4I  have 
never  known  what  it  was  to  end  an  evening's 
work  at  all  satisfied  with  myself.  No  public  ap- 
plause or  praise  of  friends  could  change  my  own 
view.  My  standard  was  always  beyond  my 
reach ;  I  could  always  see  where  I  failed  to  reach 
it.' 

"All  the  truly  great  people  I  have  known  have 
expressed  this  feeling  in  one  way  or  another.  So 
I  feel  that  it  is  only  the  very  small,  poorly  en- 
dowed, natures  that  can  be  at  all  harmed  by  praise 
of  their  work,  whatever  that  work  may  be. 

"I  have  written  with  an  easy  conscience,  for 
I  do  not  expect  any  word  in  reply  to  my  letter. 
I  could  not  be  so  selfish  and  so  cruel  as  to  add 
that  task  for  a  tired  man,  tired  indeed  you  must 
be,  as  your  long,  full  season  ends.  No,  this  is 
just  a  wee  voice  in  the  chorus  of  voices  that  have 
told  you  just  the  same  things  in  far  better  words 
than  I  can  find — it  makes  no  faintest  demand 
upon  you  in  any  way.  Next  season  I  hope, 
through  my  friend  Mrs.  William  McAdoo,  to  have 
the  pleasure  of  an  introduction  to  Mrs.  McCor- 
mack,  of  whom  I  have  heard  the  pleasantest 
things,  and  yourself. 

"For  that  good  time  I  shall  wait — with  an  old 
woman's  heartiest  thanks  and  blessings  for  the 
songs  that  have  brightened  her  life,  and  for  the 

261 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

singer — and  with  all  best  Easter  wishes  for  Mrs. 
McCormack,  the  children  and  yourself, 
"I  remain, 

"Gratefully  yours, 


It  would  destroy  the  sense  of  fitness  to  give 
the  name  of  the  lady  who  wrote  John  McCor- 
mack, from  the  depths  of  her  heart.  But  there 
is  one  thing  I  can  say — she  received  a  reply, 
penned,  I  am  sure,  by  a  hand  that  was  not  al- 
together steady  and  guided  by  a  pair  of  eyes  not 
free  from  moments  of  blurred  vision.  And  that 
little  lady  is  now  one  of  the  good  friends  of  the 
tenor  and  his  wife. 

For  that  human  understanding,  which  is  so 
large  a  part  of  McCormack's  nature,  is  one  of 
the  principal  elements  which  have  made  him  the 
singer  he  is ;  which  had  carried  him,  even  on  the 
eve  of  his  Manhattan  Opera  House  debut,  far 
along  in  his  ability  to  touch  his  hearers  and  to 
move  them  with  the  emotions  he  felt. 

I  intimated,  some  pages  back,  that  John  does 
not  flinch  under  punishment.  It  was  well  for 
him,  on  Wednesday,  November  10,  1909,  that 
he  belonged  to  no  timorous  kin  and  lacked  no 
faith  in  himself.  For  nearly  three  weeks  the 

262 


MANHATTAN  OPERA  HOUSE  DEBUT 

tenor's  voice  had  refused  to  become  adjusted  to 
the  climatic  conditions  of  New  York.  Rest  and 
throat-specialists  brought  no  improvement  to  the 
roughened  membranes  surrounding  that  golden 
voice-box.  John's  debut-morning  dawned  with 
his  voice  still  below  par,  and  in  no  condition  for 
the  oncoming  demands. 

But  he  had  been  announced,  he  was  a  fighter 
— and  he  wouldn't  quit. 

Until  an  hour  before  curtain-time  the  respon- 
siveness of  John's  voice  was  uncertain.  It  was 
only  natural  that  he  should  have  walked  the  floor 
of  his  hotel  chamber  a  large  part  of  that  day;  and 
that  he  should  have  turned,  in  his  hour  of  need, 
to  prayer.  He  did  both,  and  submitted  to  the 
ministrations  of  his  physican,  Dr.  Dupont. 
"But  not  once,"  asserts  Mrs.  McCormack,  "did 
his  faith  waver.  Til  go  on,'  he  would  repeat, 
from  time  to  time,  'and  get  through  all  right.' : 

Those  of  us  who  were  present  at  the  Manhat- 
tan, that  evening,  remember  how  he  got  through. 
With  Tetrazzini  and  Sammarco,  and  with  An- 
selmi  conducting,  John  McCormack  made  his 
American  operatic  debut  as  Alfredo  in  "Travi- 
ata."  And  without  stint  that  large  and  discrim- 
inating audience  "rose  to  him"  (as  some  of  the 

263 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

critics  averred)  and  accepted  him  as  a  tenor  they 
wished  to  hear. 

In  better  voice,  since  then,  he  has  given  a  bet- 
ter account  of  himself.  But  experts  did  not 
disagree  as  to  the  purity  of  those  lyric  tones,  the 
delightful  freedom  of  their  delivery  and  the  un- 
affected style  with  which  Verdi's  music  was  sung. 
From  that  November  night  of  Nineteen  Hundred 
Nine  there  was  no  doubt  as  to  the  future  in  this 
country  of  John  McCormack.  Whether  there 
were  any  in  the  Manhattan  audience  with  the 
vision  of  Oscar  Hammerstein,  when  he  foresaw 
McCormack's  concert  possibilities,  I  do  not  know. 
What  I  do  recall  is  that  he  passed  his  test,  and 
entered  into  those  precincts  sought  by  many  but 
gained  by  the  few. 


264 


CHAPTER  XX 

GETTING    STARTED    IN    AMERICA 

"For  me,"  said  McCormack  when  next  the 
mood  was  upon  him  to  go  on  with  his  narrative, 
"a  first  performance  is  no  conclusive  test.  An 
accident  may  mar  it,  some  lucky  circumstance 
swing  it  higher  than  it  deserves.  The  second 
and  the  third  appearances  are  what  truly  count, 
for  then  the  people  know,  and  the  artist  may  de- 
termine for  himself,  how  far  he  is  likely  to  go 
and  the  possible  sum  total  of  his  accomplishment. 
To  'repeat,'  if  I  may  use  the  phrase,  is  the  mea- 
sure by  which  we  are  estimated  and  which  finally 
classifies  us  in  the  niche  where  we  belong. 

"I  lay  next  morning,  in  my  bed,  thinking 
deeply  of  what  the  succeeding  days  should  bring 
forth.  On  the  following  Monday  I  was  cast  for 
Edgardo,  in  'Lucia,'  and  later  in  that  week  I  knew 
I  should  be  called  on  to  do  Tonio  in'The  Daughter 
of  the  Regiment.'  I  already  had  read  the  news- 
paper reviews,  which  were  eminently  fair.  Sev- 
eral were  emphatic  in  their  predictions  for  me; 

265 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

and,  so  far  as  I  could  gather,  my  debut  was  a  mat- 
ter for  congratulation — as  I  soon  found  out. 

"The  'phone  bell  rang  and  answering  it  I 
heard  Oscar's  voice  on  the  wire. 

'You  should  be  in  good  voice  this  morning, 
Mike,'  he  announced,  'the  press  is  for  you.' 

'  'Mike ! '  By  that  name  Hammerstein  always 
called  me,  after  that,  and  he  still  does.  I  rather 
liked  it,  for  it  always  rang,  when  he  used  it,  with 
a  touch  of  sincere  cordiality. 

"I  tubbed,  dressed  and  after  breakfast  felt 
physically  better  than  I  had  since  I  had  arrived 
in  New  York.  The  period  of  greatest  ap- 
prehensiveness  was  past.  There  seemed  no  good 
reason  why  I  should  not  continue  with  the  suc- 
cess I  had  begun,  and  I  determined  to  do  my  best 
to  this  end.  The  throat,  when  Dr.  Dupont  came 
to  examine  it,  showed  no  ill  effects  from  having 
sung  the  previous  night.  That  comforted  me, 
and  when  I  left  the  hotel  for  a  stroll  I  doubt  if  I 
would  willingly  have  changed  places  with  any- 
one— had  such  a  thing  been  possible." 

"And  the  'Lucia'  and  'Regiment'  perform- 
ances— they  satisfied  you?" 

"I  am  never  satisfied.  Flaws  are  always  ap- 
parent, in  whatever  I  may  do.  But  the  roles  in 

266 


GETTING  STARTED  IN  AMERICA 

those  two  operas  .  .  .  you  should  know  how  I 
sang  them;  you  were  there." 

He  had  sung  them  well — that's  a  matter  of 
record.  His  voice,  too,  was  in  a  more  normal 
state  and  he  gave  it  more  freely.  John's  confi- 
dence in  the  outcome  also  appeared  to  have  stiff- 
ened. He  no  longer  doubted,  even  slightly. 
Public  acceptance  had  been  swift;  he  could 
safely  conclude  that  he  would  go  far. 
With  that  consciousness — which  he  confesses  he 
then  felt — he  sang  with  increased  authority,  and 
as  the  season  wore  on  McCormack  gained  in  ad- 
herents and  in  the  mastery  of  his  art. 

But  for  me,  John  McCormack's  metier  has  ever 
been  the  song.  He  is  the  singer  per  se;  and  in 
singing  one  has  quite  enough  to  do  without  con- 
cerning himself  with  externals,  as  is  more  or  less 
compulsory  in  opera.  For  I  remember  no  great 
opera  artist,  excelling  in  the  dramatic  side,  who 
was  correspondingly  satisfactory  as  a  singer. 
Jear.  de  Reszke  is  a  possible  exception,  yet  he 
was  more  the  singer  than  the  actor.  Fernando 
de  Lucia,  whom  McCormack  admired  devotedly, 
proved  that  one  night  most  conclusively.  He 
sang  Don  Jose  in  "Carmen"  shortly  after  Jean  de 
Reszke  had  appeared  in  that  role,  and  forever 

267  • 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

after  de  Reszke's  Don  Jose  was  a  milk  and  watery 
affair  in  acting  comparison. 

So  I  was  interested  in  McCormack's  first  con- 
cert appearance,  which  took  place  in  the  Man- 
hattan Opera  House  one  November  Sunday 
evening.  Unhampered  by  the  trappings  and 
shams  of  that  hybrid  art-form — the  opera — the 
tenor  was  most  gloriously  at  ease.  Even  then 
his  diction  was  a  thing  of  joy  for  those  who  ap- 
preciate that  much  of  the  superiority  of  the  voice, 
to  all  other  instruments,  is  its  capacity  for  speech. 
McCormack  gave  us  the  text  that  night;  clearly, 
so  that  every  syllable  could  be  understood.  And 
people  went  away  from  the  concert  talking  about 
it.  "I  never  passed  a  more  enjoyable  season 
than  that  first  and  only  one  at  the  Manhattan," 
said  McCormack,  dreamily.  "I  was  not  long  in 
discovering  the  financial  whirlpool  which  was 
threatening  to  engulf  Hammerstein,  and  it 
seemed  a  shocking  and  unfair  thing.  For  he 
was  a  great  man.  And  he  deserved  to  succeed. 
Yet,  with  all  the  weight  that  he  alone  carried, 
he  maintained  a  marvelous  poise.  With  me,  he 
was  always  serene.  I  know  of  his  fits  of  temper, 
and  some  of  the  causes — which  were  enough  to 
have  tried  Job.  Still,  he  invariably  greeted  me 
•  268 


GETTING  STARTED  IN  AMERICA 

with  that  contagious  smile.  We  of  the  Manhat- 
tan were  like  a  happy  family,  and  there  were  some 
great  artists  in  it.  Nellie  Melba,  whose  beauti- 
ful singing  still  may  be  taken  as  a  criterion  by  far 
younger  artists  of  to-day;  Mary  Garden,  unique 
artist,  if  ever  there  was  one,  who  is  as  incompar- 
able in  those  roles  exclusively  hers  as  she  was  ten 
years  ago ;  Luisa  Tetrazzini,  whose  brilliant  voice 
was  something  to  remember,  as  is  her  thoughtful 
kindness  to  me  when  I  needed  it;  Mario  Sam- 
marco,  friend  always  and  one  of  the  great  artists 
of  his  time;  Maurice  Renaud,  one  of  the  most 
finished  baritones  France  has  produced;  Charles 
Gilibert,  the  inimitable,  gentle  soul  that  he  was ; 
Giovanni  Zenatello,  whose  heroic  tenor  voice  con- 
tinues to  move  his  audiences;  Mariette  Mazarin, 
whose  Elektra  remains  in  my  memory  as  one  of 
the  herculean  vocal  feats  possible  to  a  dramatic 
soprano;  Jeanne  Gerville-Reache  and  Clothilde 
Bressler-Gianoli,  two  mezzo-sopranos  whose 
equals  one  seldom  finds;  Lina  Cavalieri,  Hector 
Dufranne,  Charles  Dalmores,  and  others. 

"But  that  list  tells  part  of  the  Hammerstein 
story — and  is  proof  enough  of  what  he  did  for 
musical  New  York.  Then  there  were  the  operas 
that  he  gave — though  not  all  of  them,  of  course, 

269 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

in  that  single  year  I  was  a  member  of  his  com- 
pany. Just  think!  'Pelleas  et  Melisande,' 
'Thais,'  'Louise,'  'Le  Jongleur  de  Notre  Dame,' 
'Elektra,' — to  mention  a  few  of  the  absolute 
novelties — and  the  revivals  he  made ! 

"I've  heard  him  called  'resourceful  Os- 
car,' "  said  McCormack,  reflectively,  "and  that 
he  was.  And  a  thorn,  always,  in  the  side  of  the 
Metropolitan  Opera  Company's  flesh — though 
just  why  he  was  so  construed  I  never  could  com- 
prehend. For  he  was  a  stimulant  to  that  man- 
agement; forever  keeping  a  competitor  alert,  as 
he  should  be  kept — which  is  good  for  opera. 

"That  competition,  by  the  way,  was  a  public 
delight.  There  were  no  idle  moments,  for  any 
of  us — at  either  institution.  We  were  spurred 
on  to  our  best  beyond  the  spurring  usual  in  most 
opera  houses.  There  was  the  consciousness  of 
close  personal  scrutiny,  of  keenest  criticism  of 
our  efforts — and  that  was  the  artistic  advantage 
of  every  one  of  us. 

"There  have  been  stories,  as  I  know,  that 
Hammerstein  was  weeks  behind  with  his  artists' 
salaries.  I  have  always  doubted  those  tales. 
From  such  evidence  as  came  before  me  they  did 
not  hold  water.  For  myself  I  can  say  that  what 

270 


GETTING  STARTED  IN  AMERICA 

was  due  me  always  came  promptly,  and  not  a 
day  late.  Even  when  the  finances  became 
pinched  Oscar  never  asked  me  to  wait,  or  com- 
plained at  the  heavy  drain  which  his  pay-roll 
wrought.  I  could  see  how  worried  he  was,  but, 
while  he  was  discouraged,  he  continued  a  fighter 
to  the  end. 

"He  crumpled  a  bit,  towards  the  end  of  the 
season.  He  confessed  to  me,  then,  that  he  was 
probably  through.  'But  you  will  be  taken  care 
of,  Mike;  tenors  such  as  you  are  are  rare.'  ' 

I  know,  incidentally,  that  by  that  remark 
Oscar  Hammerstein  meant  more  than  the  voice 
when  he  said  "such  tenors  as  you  are  are  rare." 
He  said  so  to  me,  often.  "McCormack's  got  a 
tenor  voice,  but  there  the  tenor  part  of  him  ends. 
He's  a  man." 

An  incident  tending  to  indicate  such  to  be  the 
case  was  John's  comment  upon  his  first  interview 
in  America.  "Sylvester  Rawling,  music  editor 
of  the  New  York  Evening  World,  was  the  first 
newspaperman  to  whom  I  talked  extensively  for 
publication,"  said  the  tenor.  "He  sent  word  up 
to  my  hotel  rooms  that  he  would  like  to  see  me. 
I  had  an  engagement  for  tea,  at  the  Waldorf 
Astoria,  and  hadn't  time  to  invite  him  to  stop  for 

271 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

what  he  wanted.  'But,'  I  said  to  Rawling,  Til 
be  glad  to  have  you  come  along;  perhaps  we  can 
chat  on  the  way  over  there.'  He  was  so  consid- 
erate in  the  matter,  and  wrote  such  an  interesting 
story,  that  I  never  can  forget." 

John  poured  forth  the  story  of  this  chapter  one 
cloudy  afternoon,  as  he  stood  leaning  against 
the  rail  of  his  Rocklea  pier.  He  seemed  down- 
cast, during  that  portion  relating  to  the  decline 
of  Hammerstein.  Now  and  again  he  would 
shake  his  head  sadly  before  proceeding  farther. 
But  eventually  he  got  back,  once  more,  to  the 
sequence  of  events. 

"With  New  York  comfortably  started,"  con- 
fided John,  "I  began  to  look  toward  my  first  ap- 
pearances in  other  cities.  The  Manhattan  took 
its  weekly  jaunts  to  Philadelphia,  as  you  remem- 
ber, and  Hammerstein  had  told  me  I  should  soon 
have  my  chance  at  the  Quakers.  'They'll  either 
be  for  or  against  you,'  he  said,  'they  are  no  half- 
way sort  over  there.' 

"I  marveled  at  the  opera  house,  when  I  first 
saw  its  depth.  Oscar  had  built  it  (he  could 
never  keep  out  of  real  estate,  or  inventing  to- 
bacco-machinery) during  his  third  New  York 
season  and  Philadelphia  then  had  a  suitably 

272 


GETTING  STARTED  IN  AMERICA 

modern  place  for  its  operatic  occasions.     It  was 
named  the  Metropolitan  and  was  a  huge  affair. 

"We  traveled  from  New  York  to  Philadelphia 
and  return  by  special  train — excepting  those 
who  remained  over,  after  a  hard  performance,  to 
rest  comfortably  in  a  hotel.  Those  trips  were 
jolly  affairs :  one  chair  car  being  reserved  for  the 
principal  artists,  the  conductor  and  members  of 
the  executive  staff.  Hammerstein  always  went 
along,  for  he  believed  in  the  theory  of  personal 
supervision. 

'When  I'm  there,  Mike,'  he  would  say,  'I  can 
step  lively  if  anything  goes  wrong.'  So  he  was 
generally  on  the  ground,  receiving  reports,  keep- 
ing his  stars  in  a  congenial  mood  and  serving  as 
he  alone  could  as  diplomat  extraordinary. 

"My  Philadelphia  debut  was  accomplished 
without  mishap;  the  performance  moving 
smoothly  under  Sturani's  conductorship,  and  my 
fellow  artists  contributing  their  full  share.  I 
was  becoming,  I  might  say,  somewhat  at  home 
and  those  earlier  fears  of  American  annoyances 
had  disappeared.  I  considered  myself  launched 
in  the  new  country,  and  a  fixture  with  that  partic- 
ular organization. 

"But  the  bubble  of  trouble  hovered  near, 
273 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

almost  ready  to  break,  and  I  discovered  its  pres- 
ence not  long  after  the  New  Year.  That  was  an 
interesting  experience,  by  the  way — the  celebra- 
tion of  my  first  New  Year's  Eve  in  the  United 
States.  I  was  not  to  sing  in  an  opera  perform- 
ance that  night,  which  left  Mrs.  McCormack  and 
me  free  to  accept  an  invitation  to  be  the  guests 
of  friends,  our  objective  being  a  popular  hotel. 

"It  meant  rather  more  to  me  than  the  mere 
ushering  in  of  a  new  year,  as  the  old  one  passed 
on.  If  others  about  us  in  that  room  were  out 
for  jollification  I  held  a  deeper  feeling.  For  me 
the  glamor  of  that  enlivening  display  was  more 
than  an  assemblage  of  men  and  women  celebrat- 
ing an  annual  event.  It  reflected,  as  I  surveyed 
the  scene,  the  exquisite  feminine  toilettes,  the 
fortunes  in  displayed  jewels,  and  the  merrymak- 
ing, something  symbolic  of  my  career  to  come.  I 
chose,  at  least,  to  consider  it  so — and  I  gave  my- 
self unreservedly  to  an  open-eyed  dream  of  on- 
ward travel  in  my  profession,  building,  I  confess, 
a  few  modest  castles  out  of  air.  Our  host  inter- 
rupted me,  every  little  while,  to  point  out  some 
personage;  but  the  identifying  process  over  I 
would  drift  back  to  that  pleasurable  occupation 
in  which  most  people  indulge." 

274 


GETTING  STARTED  IN  AMERICA 

The  Cyril,  with  the  remainder  of  the  McCor- 
mack  family  aboard,  tooted  a  warning  at  that 
moment,  and  John  checked  his  narrative  and 
turned  to  wave  a  welcoming  hand.  We  waited 
until  Wilkinson  had  landed  the  power-boat 
against  the  float  and  helped  the  passengers 
ashore.  Cyril  and  Gwen  stopped  their  sing- 
ing long  enough  to  voice,  in  their  treble  duet, 
the  experiences  of  that  swift  trip,  and  with  that 
were  off  on  a  run  for  the  house,  Mrs.  McCor- 
mack  and  Miss  Foley  following  at  a  more  leisurely 
pace. 

"It  seems  only  yesterday,"  mused  John,  watch- 
ing the  retreating  figures  of  his  children,  "that  I 
was  striving  to  get  a  foothold  in  this  country. 
Only  when  I  look  at  them,  and  recall  that  they 
were  only  babies,  then,  do  I  realize  how  time 
flies.  After  all,  Longfellow  appreciated  what  it 
meant  when  he  wrote  that  wonderful  line,  'Life 
is  but  a  day's  journey  from  the  cradle  to  the 
grave.' 

"It  was  in  January,"  said  the  tenor,  rousing 
himself,  "that  I  was  engaged  for  my  first  Chi- 
cago appearance.  Max  Rabinoff,  an  impresario 
who  has  since  been  identified  with  conspicuous 
ventures — the  Pavlowa  ballet  tournees  and  the 

275 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

two  American  tours  of  the  Boston-National 
Grand  Opera  Company — was  the  active  manager 
of  a  series  of  concerts  then  being  given  in  the 
Chicago  Auditorium.  Many  distinguished  art- 
ists, vocalists  and  instrumentalists,  were  appear- 
ing at  these  affairs,  and  the  Chicago  Philhar- 
monic Orchestra. 

"The  possibilities  of  the  United  States  now 
impressed  me  as  more  important  than  any  I  had 
had;  for  I  had  been  assured:  'If  New  York  ap- 
proves you,  McCormack,  that  means  the  rest  of 
the  country.'  Philadelphia's  endorsement  hav- 
ing been  obtained,  I  was  anxious  to  test  my  re- 
sources before  both  Chicago  and  Boston  audi- 
ences ;  and  if  they  approved,  I  reasoned,  I  might 
feel  assured. 

"But  that  Chicago  appearance  was  not  wholly 
satisfactory.  The  audience  was  not  a  large  one, 
and  the  many  empty  seats  in  that  vast  space 
proved  disconcerting.  I  had  fancied  the  dupli- 
cation— in  size — of  assemblages  such  as  I  had 
faced  in  New  York  and  Philadelphia,  and  the 
disappointment  took  the  edge  off  my  anticipa- 
tions. Still,  I  figured,  as  I  stood  there  on  the 
Auditorium  stage,  I  must  gain  their  approval. 
So  I  sang  with  all  that  was  in  me,  one  of  the  most 

276 


GETTING  STARTED  IN  AMERICA 

satisfying  achievements  (personally)  since  I  had 
reached  America.  I  shall  always  be  grateful  to 
that  audience.  It  responded  in  recognizing  what 
I  did.  The  people  appeared  to  understand. 
Now,  when  I  sing  in  Chicago,  there  are  never 
seats  enough  to  accommodate  those  who  are  con- 
siderate enough  to  want  to  hear  me  sing. 

"The  New  York  season  at  the  Manhattan  wore 
on.  Each  night  that  I  appeared  I  would  stop,  at 
the  first  entrance  on  the  left  of  the  stage,  to  talk 
with  Oscar  Hammerstein.  He  always  sat  there, 
throughout  every  performance,  the  keenest  ob- 
server of  all ;  making  mental  notes  which  he  after- 
wards turned  to  account. 

"He  had  a  rare  mind,  too,  and  a  wit  that  was 
lightning-like  in  action.  It  was  his  sense  of 
humor,  I  often  think,  that  enabled  him  to  con- 
tinue during  that  fateful  Nineteen  Nine  and  Ten 
season,  when  he  foresaw  the  end.  I  was  walking 
with  him,  back  stage,  one  night  during  an  inter- 
mission. The  set  was  undergoing  a  change,  and 
wings  were  being  rushed  to  their  places,  drops 
raised  and  lowered,  and  properties  carried  to 
various  spots.  Oscar,  as  was  his  custom,  was 
smoking — though  I  believe  it  was  not  in  strict 
accordance  with  a  city  ordinance.  The  fireman 

277 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

detailed  to  watch  that  part  of  the  house  passed 
us. 

"He  looked  at  Hammerstein,  then  at  his  burn- 
ing cigar,  and  fixed  the  impresario  with  an  accus- 
ing look.  'Never  mind,'  returned  Oscar  with 
that  ingratiating  smile  of  his,  'it's  a  fireproof 
cigar.' 

"Scores  of  such  stories  are  told  of  him ;  he  was 
a  unique  man. 

"I  feel  prejudiced  in  his  favor  because,  as  I 
have  said,  of  his  willingness  always  to  give  an 
artist  a  chance.  I  had  never  sung  in  'Boheme' 
with  the  Manhattan,  and  had  long  wanted  to  do 
so.  But  for  some  reason  the  opportunity  had 
never  offered.  One  morning  Hammerstein  met 
me  at  the  opera-house. 

'  'Do  you  know  "Boheme"  well  enough  to  go 
on  in  it  in  Philadelphia  to-morrow  night?' 

"I  replied,  without  hesitation  (though  I  was 
not  thoroughly  'up'  on  the  last  act),  'Yes.' 
'  'All  right,  then,  get  ready  to  sing  it.' 

"I  went  to  that  fine  conductor,  Guiseppe  Stu- 
rani,  and  confessed  my  predicament.  'I  know 
the  notes,'  I  explained,  'but  I  am  rusty  and  shall 
need  your  help  to  give  me  the  cues.' 

'  'Don't  worry,  my  boy,'  replied  Sturani,  'just 
278 


GETTING  STARTED  IN  AMERICA 

keep  your  eye  on  me  during  that  last  act;  you 
don't  have  to  fuss  about  the  acting,  Mimi's  doing 
the  dying;  watch,  and  I'll  give  you  every  en- 
trance.' Good  old  Sturani,  he  never  failed  me 
once. 

"During  the  visit  to  Philadelphia,"  the  tenor 
went  on,  "a  banquet  was  given  for  me  which  I 
thoroughly  enjoyed.  The  arrangements  were 
made  by  Mr.  Michael  Doyle  and  among  those 
present  was  the  lieutenant-governor  of  Pennsyl- 
vania, representing  the  governor,  while  Arch- 
bishop Ryan  was  represented  by  his  assistant 
bishop.  The  orchestra  of  the  opera-house  paid 
me  the  great  compliment  of  coming  over,  and, 
under  the  direction  of  Maestro  Sturani,  playing 
several  numbers  at  the  banquet. 

"After  the  New  York  and  Philadelphia  seasons 
Oscar  sent  us  for  a  week  to  Boston  where  I  sang 
three  performances  with  Tetrazzini.  Here,  too, 
a  banquet  was  given  me — at  the  Algonquin  Club, 
by  some  prominent  citizens,  the  mayor  making 
the  address  of  welcome." 


279 


CHAPTER  XXI 

A    CHANGE    OF    AMERICAN    BASE 

"I  went  aboard  the  Queenstown-bound  liner, 
on  an  early  April  day,  in  Nineteen  Ten,  with  a 
tug  of  doubt  at  my  heart.  The  formal  sale  of  the 
Manhattan  Opera  House  artists-contracts  and 
belongings  to  the  Metropolitan  had  not  been  con- 
summated, yet  I  knew  that  my  Manhattan  days 
were  at  an  end.  Hammerstein  had  already 
sailed  for  Europe;  a  despondent  figure,  as  he 
shook  hands  with  me  in  farewell,  his  eyes  heavy 
with  the  fatigue  of  worry. 

"From  a  selfish  viewpoint,  I  need  have  had  no 
apprehension.  The  public  and  the  press  had  re- 
ceived me  with  every  consideration.  I  had  sung 
my  first  opera  role  in  Boston — Edgardo  in 
'Lucia,'  with  Tetrazzini  and  Sammarco — on 
March  twenty-ninth.  The  Boston  Theatre  was 
too  small  for  the  audience  that  tried  to  get  in ;  and 
there  was  a  repetition  of  this  at  'The  Daugh- 
ter of  the  Regiment'  performance  two  evenings 

280 


A  CHANGE  OF  AMERICAN  BASE 

later,  and  the  presentation  of  Traviata'  on  April 
second. 

"My  reputation — I  say  it  in  all  modesty — 
had  begun  to  swing  out  over  the  country, 
thanks  to  the  interest  of  the  newspapers  and 
magazines.  Their  'features,'  as  they  are 
called,  and  the  interviews,  so  widely  circulated, 
had  their  effect.  The  American  press  is  a 
marvelous  institution:  able,  fearless  (not  right, 
invariably,  of  course,  for  it  is  only  human  in  its 
liability  to  err),  aggressive  and  tireless  in  its 
efforts  to  progress.  If  it  is  not  one  hundred  per 
cent,  perfect — which  nothing  in  life  is — the  ex- 
ceptions to  approximate  efficiency  such  as  I  men- 
tion are  relatively  few.  And  to  the  press  of 
America,  daily,  weekly  and  monthly,  my  debt  is 
large.  In  my  humble  way,  I  may  have  served  as 
useful  'copy';  I  realize  that  had  I  not  been  that 
the  editors  would  not  have  troubled.  Neverthe- 
less, without  such  publicity  as  they  gratuitously 
conferred,  my  reputation  would  have  been  slower 
in  the  making.  The  word  of  mouth  route  is  ef- 
fective, but  not  so  swift  a  process  for  the  dissem- 
ination of  fact  as  the  printed  phrase  of  generous 
distribution. 

"But  I  never  employed  a  press  agent.  Not 
281 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

that  I  do  not  entertain  respect  for  the  profession 
and  an  admiration  for  its  members'  imaginative 
facility  which  will  never  cease.  It  was,  perhaps, 
only  a  whim  to  decline  such  services  as  were 
proffered;  or,  mayhap,  a  subconscious  warning  to 
leave  the  thing  to  the  editors  and  reporters  and 
special  writers  themselves.  For,  if  the  truth  be 
laid  bare,  I  have  always  believed  that  the  Amer- 
ican spirit  is  prone  to  seek  that  which  keeps  to 
itself,  while  at  the  same  time  it  shows  a  consist- 
ent tendency  to  push  aside  that  which  urges  con- 
sideration in  a  forward  way. 

"If  you  merit  space  in  news  or  feature  columns 
you  may  rest  assured  that  editorial  discernment 
will  land  you  there.  If  one  doesn't  belong — 
well,  clever  and  persistent  publicity  agents  will 
often  secure  a  bit  of  that  valuable  space.  But  in 
such  circumstances  the  subject  is  a  marked  man, 
or  woman.  And  gradually,  in  the  course  of 
time,  the  stories  of  'Jones'  or  'Smith'  fall  from 
under  editorial  eyes  into  the  handiest  waste- 
basket." 

We  had  wandered  from  the  pier  to  the  beach, 
and  John  seated  himself  there,  on  a  large  rock, 
and  picking  up  stones  tossed  them  absently  into 
the  water.  The  sun  was  dropping  nearer  the 

282 


A  CHANGE  OF  AMERICAN  BASE 

horizon  line  and  a  freshening  breeze  began  whip- 
ping the  surface  of  the  Sound  into  gently  churn- 
ing waves. 

"It  was  such  a  day  as  this,"  said  John,  "that  I 
landed  at  Fishguard  after  the  Manhattan  season, 
with  Mrs.  McCormack,  and  very  eager,  too,  to  get 
ashore  to  Cyril  and  Gwen,  and  our  waiting 
friends.  For  it  was  next  door  to  home,  you 
know,  and  we  had  been  absent  for  six  months. 
I'm  nearly  an  American  citizen,  now,  and  I  feel 
that  I  belong  here.  But  there's  something  about 
the  land  a  man  is  born  in  that  grips  and  holds 
him  fast — as  it  should.  I  never  catch  sight  of 
Ireland's  shoreline  that  my  breathing  doesn't 
quicken  and  my  heart  pound  a  little  faster — every 
time.  And  when  my  time  comes  to  die,  I  hope  it 
may  be  in  that  country  where  my  first  cry  was 
given  and  that  what  is  left  of  me,  in  an  earthly 
way,  may  rest  in  Irish  soil. 

"Mrs.  McCormack  and  I  went  as  quickly  as 
we  could  to  our  Hampstead  home.  Cyril  and 
Gwen  were  waiting  for  us.  The  journey  from 
Fishguard  had  been  too  slow,  and  the  rasping  of 
air-brakes  for  the  stops  were  no  sedatives  to  our 
impatience. 

"But  it  was  good,  at  length,  to  be  in  our  own 
283 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

place  with  those  near  us  from  whom  we  had  been 
so  long  separated.  Miss  Mary  Scott,  Sir  John's 
sister,  was  soon  on  the  telephone  to  welcome  us 
and  learn  the  latest  news  since  she  had  last  heard. 
In  all  these  years  we  have  had  no  friend  more  true 
than  Miss  Scott;  none  whose  friendship  held  all 
one  likes  to  contemplate  friendship  to  be. 

"To  this  day,  though  circumstances  prevent 
the  frequent  personal  meetings  we  should  like, 
she  never  fails  to  send  us  a  letter  by  each  boat 
carrying  mail.  When  we  are  at  Hampstead  she 
calls  us  every  morning  over  the  telephone. 

"And  during  the  Covent  Garden  days  I  always 
saw  her  before  a  performance.  In  the  early 
afternoon  Sir  John  would  send  one  of  his  car- 
riages for  me,  and  I  would  be  driven  to  his  home. 
There,  in  his  study,  along  about  three  o'clock,  a 
servant  would  bring  a  basket  containing  oysters, 
a  perfectly  broiled  steak  and  other  edibles — with 
a  little  bottle  of  chablis. 

"These  thoughtful  courtesies,  which  help  to 
make  life,  had  a  heartening  effect  I  will  not  en- 
deavor to  describe.  They  were  resumed  upon 
our  return  home  that  spring,  and  after  a  brief 
rest  I  began  my  Covent  Garden  season.  On  the 
days  when  I  did  not  appear  in  opera  Miss  Scott 

284 


A  CHANGE  OF  AMERICAN  BASE 

and  I  would  often  sing  duets.  She  had  a  sympa- 
thetic soprano,  and  her  sister  played  accompani- 
ments well.  Occasionally  her  brother  Walter, 
who  owns  the  Rode  Stradivarius  violin,  would 
join  us,  playing  the  obligates. 

"I  well  remember,  also,  the  facility  of  Sir  John 
Murray  Scott's  elder  sister,  Miss  Alicia,  as  a  com- 
poser. She  knew  the  voice  and  its  possibilities, 
and  her  songs  were  always  'singable';  with  no 
impossible  intervals  or  straining  for  effects. 
One  of  the  best  she  wrote  was  'Within  the  Garden 
of  My  Heart,'  which  I  sang  at  the  Boosey  Ballad 
Concerts  and  made  a  record  for  with  the  Victor 
Talking  Machine  Company." 

The  news  of  the  transfer,  to  the  Metropolitan, 
of  all  the  Manhattan  operatic  effects,  including 
the  contracts  with  the  artists,  was  conveyed  to 
McCormack  through  the  daily  press.  He  was 
most  amazed  when  he  read  the  cabled  account. 
He  had  never  heard  of  singers  being  bought  and 
sold  like  so  much  cattle;  it  seemed  almost  a  re- 
turn to  the  slavery  days. 

His  annoyance  had  moderated,  however,  when 
he  received  a  cablegram  from  Andreas  Dippel,  the 
first  general  manager  of  the  Chicago-Philadel- 
phia Grand  Opera  Company  (which  consisted  of 

285 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

the  nucleus  of  the  old  Manhattan)  stating  that 
his  company  wished  to  avail  itself  of  McCor- 
mack's  services  for  the  approaching  season. 

"I  tried  to  take  as  much  rest  as  was  possible, 
that  summer,"  said  the  tenor.  "But  I  gave  two 
concerts  in  Dublin,  where  I  am  glad  to  say  the 
people  welcomed  me  enthusiastically;  for  Dublin 
is  an  intensely  musical  city. 

"The  Dublin  audiences  are  some  of  the  most 
discriminating  I  have  ever  appeared  before. 
Their  knowledge  of  opera  almost  equals  that  of 
the  Italian  audiences.  -They  have  two  seasons  of 
opera  in  English  every  year  which  are  splendidly 
patronized,  and  each  performance  is  followed 
with  an  enthusiasm  I  have  seldom  witnessed  else- 
where. Every  person  is  there  to  enjoy  the 
music,  and  although  these  seasons  are  great  social 
events,  this  is  merely  secondary.  One  of  the 
most  interesting  things  about  the  opera  seasons  in 
Dublin  is  the  fact  that  there  is  at  every  perform- 
ance between  the  acts  an  improvised  concert  at 
which  the  well-known  local  celebrities  are  called 
upon  to  sing,  which  they  do  with  a  good  will  it 
really  is  a  pleasure  to  witness.  In  my  early  days 
in  Dublin  I  have  sung  at  several  of  those  perform- 
ances. The  caustic  wit  of  these  Dublin  'gallery 

286 


A  CHANGE  OF  AMERICAN  BASE 

boys'  is  well  known.  I  well  remember  a  criticism 
of  a  tenor  whose  high  notes  were  a  little  'tight.' 
He  was  singing  some  operatic  aria  and  the  top 
note  was  not  to  the  satisfaction 'of  one  of  those 
self-constituted  critics,  who  remarked  in  a  loud 
voice,  'loosen  his  boots,  and  let  his  high  notes 
come  free.'  Yet,  the  Dublin  audiences  are  very 
discriminating,  and  eminently  just.  One  of 
these  days,  when  we  have  won  the  war,  and  I  have 
made  money  enough  to  provide  for  my  family, 
and  a  little  bit  more,  I  shall  use  that  'little  bit 
more'  to  establish  a  conservatory  of  music  in 
Dublin.  And  I  will  get  the  best  professors  in  all 
branches  of  music  for  the  Irish  people,  whose 
talents  so  deserve  the  best  training  possible  to 
give  them. 

"I  also  gave  much  time  to  preparing  for  a  joint 
concert  tour  I  had  arranged  to  make  in  September 
with  that  master- violinist,  Fritz  Kreisler. 

"I  have  since  come  to  know  Kreisler  inti- 
mately, and  great  as  my  admiration  is  for  him  as 
an  artist  it  does  not  exceed  my  affection  for  him 
as  a  man.  It  is  an  opinion  in  which  my  entire 
family  shares,  and  to  Cyril  and  Gwen  he  is  'Uncle 
Fritz.'  Incomparable  violinist  that  he  is,  with 
qualities  of  tone,  technique,  heart  and  mind 

287 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

which  make  him  one  of  the  most  distinguished 
musicians  of  his  time,  Kreisler  was  then  as  now 
a  supreme  artist.  He  was  sensitive  in  the  ex- 
treme, yet  essentially  virile.  And  he  was,  and 
is,  the  sort  of  man  to  whom  one  felt  instinctively 
drawn.  To  give  him  one's  confidence  is  the  most 
natural  thing  of  which  I  can  think. 

"Kreisler  and  I  appeared  together  in  concerts 
for  about  four  weeks,  and  my  association  with 
him  was  the  beginning  of  a  beneficial  influence 
which  grew  steadily  and  still  continues.  I  may 
say  that  I  trace  my  first  marked  advance  in  classic 
song,  so-called,  from  that  time.  Fritz  was  a  con- 
structive critic  in  the  true  sense,  and  during  that 
tour  gave  me  a  piece  of  advice  I  have  never  for- 
gotten. 

'  'John,'  he  said  after  one  of  our  concerts, 
'always  learn  the  music  as  the  composer  wrote  it, 
be  absolutely  letter  perfect,  so  to  speak,  and  then 
put  your  own  interpretation  upon  it.' 

"In  October  Mrs.  McCormack,  the  children 
and  I  sailed  for  New  York.  We  reached  Chicago 
the  latter  part  of  the  month,  and  on  November 
tenth,  Nineteen  Ten,  I  made  my  opera  debut  in 
that  city  as  Rodolfo  in  'La  Boheme.'  ' 

John  does  not  deny  that  he  was  less  happy, 
288 


A  CHANGE  OF  AMERICAN  BASE 

under  the  new  order  of  things  operatic,  than  he 
had  been  when  the  company  was  the  Manhattan, 
with  Oscar  Hammerstein  at  the  helm.  He  ad- 
mired his  Chicago  public — that  I  know — and  en- 
joyed singing  to  it,  during  the  ten  weeks  he  spent 
in  that  energetic  city. 

"It  is  a  vital  city,"  he  told  me,  "the  very  air 
seemingly  charged  with  dynamic  energy.  One 
got  it  from  the  people  passing  in  the  streets ;  that 
radiation  of  excess  physical  strength.  It  is  an 
American  city,  and  as  different  from  New  York 
(which  is  cosmopolitan,  and  therefore,  to  my  way 
of  thinking  essentially  non-American)  as  water 
is  from  fire." 

"But  ...  you  liked  the  town?" 

"I  really  cannot  truthfully  answer,"  he  said 
with  his  customary  straightforwardness,  "for  I 
did  not  come  to  know  it  as  I  do  now.  That 
which  I  saw,  and  the  people  I  met  and  passed  in 
the  course  of  my  work,  all  impressed  me  as  the 
right  sort.  A  buoyant  people,  self-confident  and 
taking  a  pride  in  their  city.  They  had  musical 
perceptions,  also,  less  presumptuousness  than 
one  might  expect  from  so  successful  an  array  of 
humans,  and  were  always  fair. 

"The  citizens  took  a  proper  pride  in  their  first 
289 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

permanent  opera  company,  and  gave  us  com- 
mensurate support.  There  was  a  financial 
deficit,  which  the  public-spirited  guarantors  made 
up,  but  when  one  realizes  that  the  quantity  of 
opera  was  materially  greater  than  the  city  had 
been  accustomed  to  it  was,  perhaps,  too  much 
to  expect  a  larger  patronage  than  we  got.  It 
takes  time  to  build  a  self-sustaining  clientele, 
in  anything,  but  Chicago  did  its  loyal  best;  and 
the  day  is  not  so  far  distant  when  the  income 
from  a  ten  weeks'  season  will  be  equivalent  to  its 
expense. 

"The  Philadelphia  part  of  our  season  was  in- 
teresting, for  it  was  like  meeting  old  friends. 
There  were  two  divisions  of  performances:  Chi- 
cago having  its  season  divided  into  two  portions 
(our  opening  and  middle  parts  being  held  there) , 
with  Philadelphia  taking  the  second  and  the  last 
sections. 

"We  gave  'Natoma'  that  season,  in  which  I 
created  the  leading  tenor  role.  I  also  sang 
Cavaradossi  in  'Tosca,'  the  part  of  Hoffmann  in 
'The  Tales  of  Hoffmann,'  and  the  other  characters 
with  which  I  had  been  identified  in  New  York, 
Philadelphia  and  Boston  under  Oscar  Hammer- 
stein's  direction.  The  Chicago-Philadelphia 

290 


A  CHANGE  OF  AMERICAN  BASE 

personnel  of  artists  was  practically  unchanged 
from  that  of  the  Manhattan  company's,  and  Cleo- 
fonte  Campanini  held  the  post  of  general  musical 
director. 

"In  December  I  sang  in  Boston,  appearing 
twice  in  'Cavalleria  Rusticana'  and  three  times  in 
'Boheme.'  My  reception  by  Bostonians  has  al- 
ways been  cordial  and  most  enthusiastic.  I  re- 
gard them  as  discriminating  judges  of  music  and 
musicians,  and  quick  to  show  how  they  feel.  If 
I  have  a  favorite  audience  in  America  it  is  in 
Boston. 

"It  was  in  January  that  I  sang  my  first  New 
York  concert.  I  also  appeared,  a  little  later  in 
the  season,  in  other  cities  in  what  Dippel  called 
a  tour  of  his  International  Concert  Company.  It 
consisted  of  Carolina  White  (soprano),  repre- 
senting America ;  Marguerite  Sylva  (soprano) ,  as 
the  French  representative ;  Nicola  Zerola  (tenor) , 
for  Italy ;  Rosa  Olitzka  (contralto) ,  appearing  for 
Russia,  and  myself  for  Ireland. 

"During  this  International  Concert  Company 
tour  I  met  a  gentleman  who  has  become  very 
closely  identified  with  my  career.  I  refer  to  Mr. 
Charles  Wagner.  I  was  so  taken  with  his  frank 
and  honest  personality  that  in  ten  minutes  we 

291 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

had  fixed  up  a  business  deal  which  has  been  to 
our  mutual  advantage. 

"His  associate,  Mr.  Denis  F.  McSweeney,  had 
been  a  McCormack  'fan'  from  the  old  Manhattan 
days,  and  I  strongly  advised — seeing  Mac's 
natural  aptitude  for  the  managerial  business — 
that  he  and  Wagner  get  together.  This  they 
eventually  did,  and  they  make  a  splendid  combi- 
nation. I,  of  course,  think  they  are  the  greatest 
managers  in  America. 

"And  whilst  on  the  subject  of  my  management, 
I  wish  to  state  here  how  grateful  I  am  to  them  for 
their  most  dignified  presentation  of  me.  No  one 
knows  better  than  I  how  much  their  splendid  co- 
operation has  aided  me  in  my  hard  climb  towards 
success.  Their  kindly  advice,  their  unswerving 
loyalty,  their  unshakable  belief  in  my  abilities 
and,  above  all,  their  absolute  honesty  in  all  our 
business  relationship  have  been  a  pillar  of 
strength  to  me.  I  want  my  public  to  know  that 
I  am  grateful  to  them." 


292 


CHAPTER  XXII 

AUSTRALIAN    SEASON    WITH    MELBA 

"Australia  is  a  country,"  said  McCormack, 
"which  I  deeply  admire.  Some  of  my  most  sub- 
stantial successes  were  gained  there,  and  the 
people  have  treated  me  as  though  I  were  one  of 
their  nationality.  I  had  never  been  in  Australia, 
so  when  Nellie  Melba  invited  me  to  appear  as  her 
leading  tenor  in  a  season  of  opera  to  cover  many 
weeks,  to  be  divided  between  Sydney  and  Mel- 
bourne, I  accepted. 

"It  had  been  a  strenuous  year,  for  after  the 
Chicago-Philadelphia  opera  appearances  and  the 
International  Concert  Company  tour,  I  went  di- 
rect to  Covent  Garden  where  I  remained  actively 
engaged  until  the  last  week  in  July.  I  should 
have  liked  to  'loaf,'  because  I  strongly  advise  giv- 
ing the  singing  voice  a  complete  and  lengthy  rest 
once  a  year.  My  engagements,  however,  for- 
bade— until  Mrs.  McCormack  and  I  went  aboard 
the  boat  at  Marseilles,  bound  for  Sydney, 
Australia. 

293 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

"Before  leaving  for  Australia,  however,  I  had 
the  fortune  to  sing  at  a  gala  performance  given 
in  Covent  Garden  in  honor  of  the  coronation  of 
King  George  V.  All  London  was  a-quiver  with 
anticipation  and  the  choice  seats  for  the  corona- 
tion performance  sold  for  ten  guineas  each,  with 
tickets  only  for  those  whose  names  were  on  a 
selected  list. 

"To  my  mind  Covent  Garden  is  the  most  per- 
fectly appointed  and  efficiently  administered 
opera  house  in  the  world.  Such  gala  per- 
formances as  I  mention  are  a  feast  for  eyes,  as 
for  the  ears.  Decorations  costing  fifteen  to 
twenty  thousand  dollars  transform  the  interior 
of  Covent  Garden  into  a  place  of  splendor, — con- 
sistently artistic  splendor.  And  the  center  half- 
dozen  boxes  are  made  into  one,  sufficient  to  ac- 
commodate twenty-five  or  thirty  persons,  for 
royal  use. 

"Every  one  of  consequence,  who  was  physi- 
cally able  to  attend,  was  present  at  Covent  Gar- 
den on  that  occasion.  All  the  royal  family  were 
there;  also  the  entire  Corps  Diplomatique,  with 
their  attaches,  military  and  naval  officers  of  every 
accredited  nation,  in  full  uniform,  and  the  rest 

294 


AUSTRALIAN  SEASON  WITH  MELBA 

of  those  in  London  whose  positions  justified  their 
presence. 

"The  starting  hour  was  late;  nine-twenty 
o'clock.  At  this  time  the  king  entered  the  royal 
box,  which  was  a  signal  for  the  audience  to  rise. 
Then  the  orchestra  played  'God  Save  the  King.' 
Within  an  hour  and  a  half  the  celebration  was 
over — which  meant  that  the  performance  con- 
sisted of  acts  from  different  operas. 

"There  was  plenty  of  what  we  hear  described 
as  'atmosphere'  to  this  performance.  In  dig- 
nity and  substance  I  doubt  whether  its  equal 
could  be  provided  anywhere  else  on  earth.  Yet 
there  were  touches  of  the  sort  we  call  'human,' 
which  I  observed.  For  instance:  when  I  made 
my  first  entrance  my  attention  was  attracted, 
instantly,  to  a  box  at  my  left.  What  appeared 
a  searchlight  caught  my  gaze,  and  kept  it  fixed 
upon  that  object — a  strange,  utterly  inexplicable 
one,  I  thought.  Gradually,  as  I  became  more 
accustomed  to  the  brightness,  which  may  have  set 
my  sight  from  normal  focus,  I  was  able  to  deter- 
mine what  the  odd  light  meant.  If  you  will  be- 
lieve it,  it  was  nothing  more  than  a  huge  corsage 
of  diamonds  (which  must  have  been  worth  a 

295 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

fabulous  fortune)  worn  by  an  East  Indian  prince; 
a  fitting  adornment  for  the  occasion,  which  had 
no  doubt  been  donned  with  as  much  indifference 
as  I  would  put  on  a  white  scarf  as  part  of  my 
evening  dress." 

We  were  on  the  veranda  of  the  New  York  Ath- 
letic Club  house,  at  Travers  Island.  John  sat 
facing  the  sweep  of  water  and  small  islands 
which  fronts  that  side,  and  his  animation  indi- 
cated his  interest  in  the  part  of  the  narrative  he 
was  beginning. 

"That  trip  to  Australia  was  one  of  the  most 
interesting  in  my  life,"  he  said.  "Through  the 
Straits  of  Messina  we  went,  catching  a  view  of 
Mount  Etna  in  eruption;  on  to  Port  Said, 
the  back  door  of  the  world;  continuing, 
through  the  Suez  Canal  and  the  Red  Sea,  in 
heat  that  makes  a  New  York  heat  wave 
feel  like  an  autumn-day;  thence  to  Colombo,  a 
real  Paradise.  We  stopped  overnight  at  Gaul 
Face  Hotel.  Next  morning  we  proceeded  to 
Freemantle  and  thence  over  the  Australian 
Bight,  which  is  supposed  to  be  the  roughest  sea 
in  the  world,  for  across  it  blows  a  wind  that  comes 
straight  from  the  South  Pole  without  interrup- 
tion. 

296 


AUSTRALIAN  SEASON  WITH  MELBA 

"We  reached  Adelaide  in  a  mood  of  joyous  an- 
ticipation, for  I  had  been  looking  forward  to  meet- 
ing Cardinal  Moran,  of  Sydney.  He  was  a 
Prince  of  the  Church  of  whom  I  had  heard  a  great 
deal;  and  I  had  learned  that  His  Eminence  had 
expressed  a  wish  to  meet  the  'Irish  minstrel  boy,' 
as  he  called  me.  But  I  never  was  privileged  to 
see  Cardinal  Moran ;  he  died  the  day  I  arrived  in 
Australia,  and  our  trip  by  train  from  Adelaide  to 
Sydney  was  not  altogether  a  happy  one.  I  felt 
as  sad  as  if  I  had  known  Cardinal  Moran  per- 
sonally. 

"The  rehearsals  for  the  opening  performance 
were  intensely  interesting.  Mme.  Melba  was 
like  a  child  with  a  new  toy,  and  insistent  that 
everything  be  done  to  allow  the  presentations  to 
be  made  without  a  hitch.  The  soprano  did 
everything  to  promote  a  spirit  of  harmony  among 
us,  and  it  is  no  exaggeration  to  speak  of  us  as  'a 
happy  operatic  family' ;  it  was  very  like  the  feel- 
ing that  prevailed  at  the  Manhattan,  in  New 
York. 

"The  premiere  performance  was  of  'Traviata,' 
and  I  consider  it  the  best  one  in  which  I  ever  took 
part.  The  audience  was  said  to  have  been  the 
most  representative  ever  assembled  in  Sydney. 

297 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

It  included  nearly  every  one  of  importance — 
from  the  Governor-General  and  his  staff  down. 
Lord  Denman  was  then  Governor-General,  a 
courtly  gentleman,  who  took  a  lively  interest  in 
all  things  Australian  and  was  deservedly  most 
popular  with  the  people.  He  came  often  to  our 
performances  with  his  charming  wife  and  from 
time  to  time  invited  some  of  the  artists  to  Gov- 
ernment House  to  entertain  them  there.  Mrs. 
McCormack  and  I  enjoyed  their  hospitality  on 
several  occasions.  The  occasion  marked  Mme. 
Melba's  first  appearance  in  opera  before  her  na- 
tive people,  who  were  as  anxious  that  she  should 
triumph  as  she  was  herself. 

"And  triumph  she  did,  as  she  deserved. 
Mme.  Melba  is  a  great  artist.  I  never  tired 
studying  her  methods;  to  be  near  her,  and 
observe  what  she  did,  was  an  education  for  a 
singer.  That  night  she  was  superb;  and  the 
supporting  principals,  the  orchestra  and  the  con- 
ductor (Maestro  Angelini,  a  thorough  musician 
and  a  man  of  real  charm)  did  their  share  in  con- 
tributing to  the  success. 

"The  ten  weeks'  season  in  Sydney  was  notable 
in  the  history  of  opera  in  Australia.  The  per- 
formances were  made  events,  and  the  attendances 

298 


AUSTRALIAN  SEASON  WITH  MELBA 

were  both  large  and  composed  of  those  who  con- 
stituted desirable  audiences.  We  all  spared  no 
effort,  individually,  which  might  aid  in  creating 
the  effects  desired.  No  petty  jealousies  arose  to 
disturb  our  serenity;  and  nothing  of  serious  na- 
ture interfered  with  our  endeavors. 

"Both  the  people  and  the  press  accepted  me, 
almost  unconditionally,  from  the  outset.  It  was 
gratifying  to  find  my  popularity  growing,  which, 
of  course,  stimulated  me  to  the  best  efforts  of 
which  I  was  capable.  I  was  fortunate,  also,  in 
being  in  good  health  during  the  eighteen  weeks  of 
opera  in  Sydney  and  Melbourne;  I  disappointed 
only  once.  And  that  brings  to  my  mind  an  inci- 
dent which  will  show  the  spirit  of  good  will  exist- 
ing between  the  principal  artists. 

"I  was  to  have  sung  the  title  role  in  'Faust,' 
but  indisposition  prevented.  When  the  audi- 
ence learned  of  this  they  began  to  chant:  4We 
want  John  McCormack,  we  want  John  McCor- 
mack' — and  they  continued  this,  in  a  good- 
natured  way,  during  the  first  act  of  the  opera. 
The  one  who  told  me  about  it  was  the  tenor  who 
sang  in  my  stead,  and  we  laughed  together  over 
the  matter. 

"The  Sydney  season  closed  brilliantly,  and  was 
299 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

declared  to  have  touched  an  exceptional  artistic 
standard.  Nor  do  I  wonder  that  this  was  the 
verdict.  The  same  care  was  shown  by  Mme. 
Melba  in  the  choice  of  artists  for  the  small  parts 
as  of  those  for  the  more  important  ones ;  and  this 
resulted  in  an  ensemble  which  would  have  done 
credit  to  any  opera  house  in  the  world.  My  per- 
sonal acceptance  gave  me  both  pride  and  confi- 
dence, and  when  we  gave  our  Melbourne  pre- 
miere I  was  prepared,  in  mood  and  vocal  con- 
dition, to  give  the  best  of  which  I  was  capable. 

"The  reception  we  received  in  Mme.  Melba's 
home  city  was  so  enthusiastic  that  I  can  think  of 
but  one  appropriate  word  adequately  to  describe 
it:  a  'riot.'  News  of  our  achievements  in  Sydney 
had  preceded  our  opening,  and  the  assemblage 
came  prepared  to  hear  and  see  an  unusual  per- 
formance. From  their  demeanor  they  must  have 
been  thoroughly  satisfied.  Mme.  Melba,  of 
course,  triumphed  unequivocally,  and  received  a 
demonstration  such  as  few  artists  have  had  in 
their  careers.  The  most  interested  member  of 
that  audience  was  Mme.  Melba's  father.  He  sat 
in  the  first  row,  in  a  state  of  rapt  attention 
throughout  the  performance;  he  must  have  felt 
proud  of  his  daughter. 

300 


AUSTRALIAN  SEASON  WITH  MELBA 

"Our  repertoire,  as  in  Sydney,  was  sufficiently 
extensive.  The  operas  in  which  I  sang  were 
'Faust,'  'Traviata,'  'Romeo  and  Juliet,'  'Madame 
Butterfly,'  Tosca,'  'Rigoletto'  and  'Boheme.'  " 

McCormack,  at  this  juncture,  allowed  himself 
a  smile.  It  preluded  something  of  an  amusing 
nature  which  he  presently  related. 

"The  one  humorous  incident  of  the  season 
occurred  during  a  performance  of  'Boheme.' 
We  had  a  soprano;  a  nice  voice,  but  she  hadn't 
had  enough  experience  with  the  role  of  Mimi  to 
render  her  letter-perfect  in  either  music  or  action. 
Yet,  circumstances  made  it  necessary  to  cast  her 
for  this  appearance,  one  evening.  You  remem- 
ber my  telling  about  Maestro  Sturani  giving  me 
the  music  entrance  cues  during  the  last  act  of 
'Boheme'  in  Philadelphia?  Well,  I  had  the  ad- 
vantage, on  that  occasion,  of  at  least  knowing  the 
notes.  This  young  woman  had  scarcely  a  bow- 
ing acquaintance,  during  that  part  of  Puccini's 
opera,  with  any  of  the  first  soprano's  notes. 

"In  the  love  scene  in  the  last  act  between  Mimi 
• 

and  Rodolfo  I  discovered  my  colleague  getting 
deeper  and  deeper  into  musical  difficulties.  She 
began  to  skip  whole  measures,  and  mumble  and 
drop  her  voice.  Now  a  duet  is  satisfactory  to  the 

301 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

hearers  only  when  both  parts  are  sung;  but  as 
the  soprano  increased  her  floundering  there  was 
nothing  for  me  to  do  (aided  occasionally  by  the 
basso)  but  to  sing  both  tenor  and  soprano  music 
— where  the  notes  permitted.  Briefly,  I  made 
love  to  myself  during  that  portion  of  the  opera, 
and  found  amusement  in  so  doing. 

"The  season  closed,  in  Melbourne,  wonder- 
fully— that  just  describes  it.  The  stage,  after 
the  third  act  of  'Boheme,'  was  a  rose  garden, 
made  so  from  the  floral  contributions  of  admirers. 
Mme.  Melba  addressed  her  hearers,  showing  how 
deeply  she  was  touched  by  their  tribute ;  and  she 
did  not  neglect  to  praise  her  fellow  artists. 

"I  never  have  so  completely  enjoyed  partici- 
pating in  a  season  of  opera.  The  people  of  both 
cities  where  I  had  so  frequently  appeared  took  me 
to  their  hearts.  My  type  of  voice  was  what  they 
seemed  to  admire  in  a  tenor.  They  do  not  care 
much,  in  Australia,  for  shouters.  A  sympa- 
thetic voice  appeals  to  them  most,  and  is  pre- 
ferred to  the  big,  booming  instrument. 

"In  the  midst  of  preparations  to  proceed  to  the 
United  States,  where  I  had  concert  engage- 
ments to  fulfill,  I  was  approached  by  Mr.  South- 
well, a  concert  manager,  suggesting  that  I  con- 

302 


AUSTRALIAN  SEASON  WITH  MELBA 

sent  to  give  two  programmes  in  Sydney  and  one 
in  Melbourne.  As  admirers  had  already  begged 
that  I  sing  to  them  I  was  in  a  responsive  mood, 
and  therefore  commissioned  Mr.  Southwell  to 
make  the  arrangements. 

"These  concert  appearances  filled  my  cup  to 
overflowing.  I  had  had  ovations  in  opera,  but 
they  were  no  more  pronounced  than  those  given 
me  on  the  concert  platform.  The  newspapers 
were  enthusiastic;  and  directly  there  arose 
controversies  as  to  whether  I  was  superior  in  one 
form  of  musical  entertainment  or  in  the  other. 
So  intense  were  the  discussions — in  the  press 
and  out  of  it — that  the  people  allied  with  the 
respective  issues  divided  themselves  into  two 
camps.  I  never  knew  which  side,  if  either,  set- 
tled the  question  to  the  majority's  satisfaction. 

"It  was  just  prior  to  my  Australian  concert 
appearances  that  I  met  a  young  man  who  subse- 
quently became  identified  with  me  in  my  career, 
a  violinist  of  admirable  talents  and  a  splendid 
youth  who  has  since  heeded  the  call  of  his  coun- 
try and  joined  the  Royal  Air  Force:  I  mean 
Donald  McBeath.  He  was  sent,  with  a  letter  of 
introduction  from  Mother  Xavier  of  the  Lewis- 
ham  Hospital,  to  me  at  my  house  in  Melbourne. 

303 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

He  was  a  tall,  lanky  boy  of  sixteen.  He  played 
for  me  an  Adagio,  by  Ries,  and  splendidly;  I  be- 
came immediately  interested  and  my  interest  has 
not  abated. 

"Mother  Xavier,  whose  lovable  character  had 
made  her  adored  throughout  Australia,  was  ex- 
ercising a  sort  of  protecting  guidance  over  Don- 
ald. His  playing  impressed  me  sufficiently  to 
engage  him  for  my  three  concerts ;  and  I  was  glad 
this  was  so,  because  Mother  Xavier  did  so  much 
for  others  that  any  request  she  made  the  people 
always  took  delight  in  granting.  Yes,  and  there 
was  yet  another  reason. 

"This  good  woman  came  from  a  town  only 
twenty  miles  from  my  own  Athlone — Mullingar, 
in  County  Westmeath.  I  had  been  to  see  her, 
and  was  so  taken  with  the  work  she  was  doing 
that  I  asked  if  I  could  not,  in  some  way,  be  of 
service. 

"She  smiled,  and  answered:  'If  you  could 
come  to  the  hospital  and  sing  a  few  of  those  won- 
derful songs  for  the  nuns.'  It  was  such  a  little 
thing,  I  thought,  for  her  to  ask,  though  she  did 
not  appear  to  think  so.  I  quickly  arranged  to 
have  Donald  McBeath  go  with  me,  and  Mother 
Xavier  brought  her  nuns  together.  The  pleasure 

304 


AUSTRALIAN  SEASON  WITH  MELBA 

these  good  people  derived  from  that  concert  was 
many  times  worth  the  slight  effort  caused  in  giv- 
ing it,  so  much  so  that  I  shall  never  go  to  Aus- 
tralia that  I  shall  not  give  a  concert  for  Mother 
Xavier  and  her  nuns. 

"I  never  had  a  more  appreciative  audience 
than  this  little  body  of  workers  in  a  noble  cause. 
I'll  concede  that  they  may  have  been  a  trifle  prej- 
udiced, still  they  seemed  discriminating,  for  they 
were  enthusiastic  over  the  better  music  no  less 
than  over  the  ballads. 

"Sailing  away  from  the  Antipodes  I  could  not 
refrain  from  pondering  over  my  experiences  of 
those  five  preceding  months.  Rewards  had  come 
to  me,  most  bounteously;  and  I  was  unutterably 
grateful. 

"Wonderful  as  the  trip  from  Marseilles  to 
Adelaide  had  been,  another,  scarcely  less  wonder- 
ful, lay  ahead.  Past  the  Fiji  Islands  we  steamed ; 
thence,  under  a  canopy  of  clouds,  to  Honolulu 
— garden  spot  of  the  Pacific.  And  it  was  there 
that  I  was  first  made  acquainted  with  that  native 
instrument,  the  iikelele,  which  has  since  become 
so  popular. 

"On  a  winter's  morning,  in  February,  Nine- 
teen Twelve,  we  landed  in  Victoria,  British  Co- 

305 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

lumbia.  We  entered  a  cab,  and  the  driver  took 
us  to  the  Empress  Hotel.  It  was  only  a  few 
blocks  from  the  dock,  but  this  shrewd  young  man 
went  about,  through  street  after  street,  until  he 
felt  he  had  given  us  ride  enough  to  warrant  the 
fee  he  intended  to  demand. 

'Two  dollars,'  he  blandly  remarked,  when 
we  stepped  out  before  the  hotel. 

"'What  for?' I  asked. 

"  For  the  ride,'  he  retorted. 

"But  isn't  that  rather  steep?'  I  wanted  to 
know. 

'Well,'  remarked  the  cabby,  'I  paid  two  dol- 
lars for  a  Victor  record  of  yours  this  morning, 
and  it's  only  fair  to  get  even.' 

"What  did  you  do?"  I  asked,  laughing. 

"What  could  I  do?"  said  John.  "He  had 
me,  and  knew  that  he  had.  So  I  paid  him  his 
two  dollars." 


306 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

AMERICAN   AND   AUSTRALASIAN    CONCERTS 

McCormack  came  eastward  across  the  Ameri- 
can continent,  that  late  winter  and  spring  of 
Nineteen  Twelve,  by  easy  stages.  He  sang 
thirty-four  concerts,  and  according  to  newspaper 
accounts  they  were  important  affairs.  The 
tenor's  return  to  the  United  States  was  welcomed 
in  each  city  where  he  appeared  by  a  large  audi- 
ence, which  seemed  happy  to  renew  a  musical 
friendship. 

At  the  conclusion  of  this  part  of  his  tour  he 
went  to  London,  and  resumed  his  annual  ap- 
pearances in  Covent  Garden.  His  voice  and  his 
artistry  had  developed ;  he  was  twenty-eight,  and 
his  experience  and  his  travels  had  not  only  made 
him  a  more  convincing  singer  but  had  broad- 
ened him,  too,  in  knowledge  and  the  understand- 
ing of  life. 

In  the  autumn  of  that  year,  after  a  summer  at 
Hampstead  with  his  family,  McCormack  pre- 
307 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

pared  for  concerts  in  the  United  States  under  the 
Wagner  management.  But  each  leave-taking  of 
those  closest  to  him  grew  more  difficult.  Home- 
sickness continued  to  be  a  malady  he  could  not 
elude;  yet  there  was  a  comfort  he  took  in  the 
thought  of  the  companionship  which  Mrs.  Mc- 
Cormack  had  in  her  sister,  Miss  Josephine  Foley, 
and  in  Cyril  and  Gwenny. 

"For,"  as  an  intimate  friend  of  theirs  told  me, 
"in  the  McCormack  home  Miss  Foley  has 
thoughts  of  all  others  before  herself.  She  is 
'Auntie,'  and  indispensable;  a  buoyant  nature 
that  shows  in  the  upturned  corners  of  an  expres- 
sive mouth,  and  a  smile  eternal  in  eyes  that  look 
frankly  into  yours  when  she  greets  you.  A 
personality  one  feels  at  once,  with  charm  of  man- 
ner in  which  sincerity  dwells.  The  visitor  ob- 
serves these  things  instantly;  and  returning 
again  to  the  McCormack  household  becomes  con- 
vinced of  them  the  more.  So,  if  she  be  momen- 
tarily absent,  she  is  missed — and  by  Mrs.  Mc- 
Cormack and  the  children  and  John,  even  more 
than  by  the  guest,  because  Miss  Foley  has  a 
faculty  of  making  things  pleasant,  in  ways  that 
are  gratefully  smooth." 

St.  Louis  marked  the  launching  of  that  Nine- 
308 


AMERICAN  CONCERTS 

teen  Twelve  season.  McCormack  and  Wagner, 
his  new  manager,  both  had  a  desire  to  begin  in 
the  city  where  the  inexperienced  Irish  boy  had 
sung  to  appreciative  audiences  during  the  Expo- 
sition, more  than  eight  years  before.  The  as- 
semblage that  gathered  in  the  Odeon  packed  the 
place  to  the  doors.  There  were  a  score  of  en- 
cores, with  men  and  women  applauding  until  too 
weary  to  continue. 

Each  subsequent  concert  was  but  a  repetition 
of  that  which  moved  the  St.  Louis  throng  to  its 
demonstration.  The  McCormack  hold  upon  the 
people  grew,  and  with  it  his  prestige.  He  was 
a  personality,  with  fame  spreading  everywhere. 
I  recall  that  it  was  about  this  time  that  the  serious 
musicians  and  the  ablest  of  the  music  critics 
recognized  the  McCormack  voice  and  art  as  things 
of  outstanding  importance.  Within  a  scant  three 
years  he  was  justifying  the  promise  which  dis- 
cerning people  at  his  first  Manhattan  appear- 
ances had  believed  that  he  held. 

But  had  John  been  less  the  artist  he  was,  had 
he  been  in  the  slighest  degree  unequal  to  touch- 
ing the  hearts  of  his  hearers,  he  must  have 
blighted  the  large  hopes  cherished  for  him.  It 
is  incontestible  evidence  of  his  qualities  that  he 

309 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

measured,  in  those  days,  up  to  the  standard  the 
people  were  brought  to  believe  was  his. 

The  music  critics  of  recognized  authority  be- 
gan to  discover  all  this.  But  the  programmes 
John  offered  confused  them,  because  his  re- 
sources and  his  unquestioned  sincerity  admitted 
of  his  offering  more  songs  of  so-called  classic 
mould  during  a  concert  than  were  forthcoming. 
They  failed  to  see  (I  know  that  I  did)  the  pur- 
pose of  John's  methods,  (which  he  has  explained 
in  another  chapter) :  that  the  simplest  songs 
must  be  sung,  almost  exclusively,  for  some  time 
before  those  of  finer  character,  in  considerable 
number,  can  with  safety  be  offered. 

It  is  only  additional  proof  of  McCormack's 
faith  in  himself,  and  the  course  he  was  pursuing, 
that  he  continued  steadfast  in  his  mission  to  take 
to  the  people  the  songs  they  could  understand 
— the  songs  they  longed  to  hear.  Yet  with  each 
reappearance  in  a  city  (and  in  many,  that  sea- 
son, he  sang  twice  and  three  times)  he  would 
introduce  just  a  little  more  of  the  better  music 
he  was  so  judiciously  bringing  into  its  place. 

Every  important  city  heard  John  McCormack 
between  the  fall  of  Nineteen  Twelve  and  the  late 
spring  of  Nineteen  Thirteen.  The  largest  audi- 

310 


AMERICAN  CONCERTS 

toriums  possible  to  obtain  were  filled  as  often 
as  he  appeared  in  them,  and  the  people  went 
away — clamoring  for  more. 

Again  the  tenor  returned  to  London,  for  his 
Covent  Garden  annual  engagement;  and  once 
more  the  public  and  the  newspapers  recorded  the 
advance  he  had  made  in  his  art.  In  opera,  as 
well  as  in  concert,  he  continued  steadily  to  prog- 
ress, and  the  gratifying  part  of  it  was  in  the 
general  recognition  that  obtained. 

"That  summer  was  one  of  happiness,  happi- 
ness in  being  at  home  with  my  family,  in  the 
study  I  was  engaged  upon,  the  anticipation  of 
my  approaching  Australasian  concert  tour,  and 
my  participation  in  affairs  of  absorbing  interest. 
I  had  corresponded,  some  months  before,  with 
J.  &  N.  Tait,  a  firm  of  established  and  highly 
respected  Australian  concert  managers,  and  ar- 
rangements had  been  made  for  an  extended  tour, 
through  Australasia. 

"It  was  during  this  summer,"  continued  the 
tenor,  "that  I  sang  at  a  concert  given  in  aid  of 
the  Ovada  Bazaar,  held  in  Dublin." 

We  were  on  a  golf  course  during  this  part  of 
the  narrative.  I  was  curious  to  pin  a  story  I  had 
heard:  that  John  had  broken  down  when  he  sang 

311 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

"Mother  Machree"  at  a  concert  where  his  own 
mother  sat  in  a  hall,  listening  to  him.  He  smiled 
when  the  question  came,  and  teed  his  ball. 

"It's  not  true,"  he  declared.  "The  time  and 
place  where  I  sang  the  song — and  to  mother — 
was  that  concert  I  just  mentioned.  Mary  An- 
derson was  the  moving  spirit  of  the  Ovada  Ba- 
zaar, and  she  made  a  remarkable  speech.  When 
I  sang  'Mother  Machree,'  which  happened  to  be 
for  the  first  time  in  Ireland,  I  confess  to  being 
deeply  moved.  But  mother  was  nearer  to  tears 
than  I.  It  was,  I  believe,  the  most  eloquent 
interpretation  of  the  song  I  had  ever  given ;  there 
was  reason  enough — in  my  mother's  being  there 
— and  I  think  the  audience  sensed  it,  and  under- 
stood the  reason.  Two  years  before,  in  San 
Francisco,  when  I  first  sang  'Mother  Machree,' 
I  felt  a  lump  in  my  throat;  the  poem  and  the 
music  always  affect  me." 

John  and  I  walked  down  the  golf  course  to- 
wards the  spot  where  his  ball  had  gone.  His 
friend  Dick  Lounsbery,  with  the  two  caddies, 
were  beating  the  grass  where  it  lay  hidden. 
They  located  it  as  we  drew  near,  and  John  re- 
marked he  "guessed"  he  would  have  to  use  his 
spoon. 

312 


AMERICAN  CONCERTS 

"It  isn't  a  spoon  you  want  here,"  retorted  the 
bright  young  man,  "what  you'll  need  are  a  knife 
and  fork." 

John  laughed,  but  after  his  shot,  made  ade- 
quate rejoinder.  He  was  not  far  from  the  green, 
for  that  drive  had  gone  a  distance.  He  ap- 
proached like  a  professional,  sending  the  little 
white  sphere  to  within  ten  feet  of  the  cup.  His 
partner  had  been  overruning  the  greens,  and 
John  found  his  chance. 

"That's  the  way,"  he  exulted;  "anyone  can 
smash  'em  double-forte,  but  it  takes  a  golfer  to 
hit  them  mezza-voce."  After  holding  out  the 
tenor  continued  with  his  narrative. 

"Having  engaged  McSweeney  as  my  personal 
representative  for  the  Australasian  tour,  I  sent 
him  on  well  in  advance  of  my  arrival  in  Sydney, 
where  it  was  planned  I  should  give  my  opening 
concert  on  September  4.  Shortly  after  his  ar- 
rival there,  McSweeney  cabled  that  a  small-pox 
scare  had  Sydney  by  the  heels.  He  informed 
me  that  nearly  all  the  theatres  were  being  affected 
by  this  fear  of  the  epidemic,  but  that  in  spite  of 
this  the  feeling  was  that  it  would  not  diminish 
the  attendances  at  my  proposed  concerts. 

"I  therefore  sailed,  as  before,  from  Marseilles ; 
313 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

taking  with  me  Mrs.  McCormack,  Miss  Foley, 
Vincent  O'Brien,  and  Cyril  and  Gwendolyn. 
The  trip  was  a  second  enchanting  experience  in 
beholding  those  sights  I  have  previously  men- 
tioned. Mrs.  McCormack  and  Miss  Foley  found 
a  delight  similar  to  mine,  and  the  children,  in 
so  far  as  they  were  able,  were  interested. 

"Shortly  after  arriving  at  our  destination,  the 
Mayor  of  Sydney — at  a  reception  given  me — said 
he  was  glad  I  had  reached  the  city,  because  he 
felt  that  no  one  would  do  more  to  allay  the  fears 
of  the  people  than  the  Irish  singer  'who  had  al- 
ready proven  how  deeply  he  was  able  to  move  the 
people  with  his  rare  singing  of  songs  everyone 
wanted  to  hear.' 

"That,  naturally,  encouraged  me  to  do  every- 
thing in  my  power  to  satisfy  my  public.  The 
Messrs.  Tait,  and  McSweeney,  assured  me  that  I 
was  certain  to  have  all  the  patronage  the  Town 
Hall  would  accommodate;  and  they  were  right. 
But  the  opening  concert  found  me  half  sick  from 
the  effects  of  the  vaccination  to  which  it  had  been 
considered  wise  I  should  submit.  I  was  in  that 
condition,  though  it  was  not  generally  known, 
throughout  the  three  succeeding  appearances. 

"Donald  McBeath,  who  had  improved  in  his 
314 


Vincent  O'Brien,  Donald  McBeath  and  John  McCormack 


AMERICAN  CONCERTS 

violin  playing,  appeared  with  me,  and  acquitted 
himself  most  creditably.  The  newspapers  all  as- 
serted that  my  singing  was  better,  even,  than  it 
had  been  when  I  first  sang  in  Sydney,  on  my 
earlier  visit.  As  for  the  audiences,  I  was  truly 
overwhelmed,  not  only  by  their  demonstrations 
during  and  after  the  concerts,  but  when  I  ap- 
peared to  get  into  the  vehicle  which  should  carry 
me  to  my  hotel. 

"It  was  at  one  of  these  Sydney  concerts  that 
Cyril  and  Gwen  heard  me  sing  in  public  for  the 
first  time.  They  sat,  with  their  mother,  in  the 
audience;  and  from  time  to  time  I  looked  to  see 
how  my  endeavors  were  affecting  them.  I  was 
anxious  most  naturally  to  see  the  effect  produced 
on  their  youthful  minds,  and  I  can't  tell  you  how 
delighted  I  was  to  watch  the  rapt  attention  they 
paid  to  each  song.  But  Cyril  was  disappointed 
because  I  had  not  sung  his  favorite — "Molly  Bran- 
nigan.'  He  came  with  Mrs.  McCormack  and 
Gwen  to  my  dressing-room,  as  the  audience  was 
leaving  the  hall,  and  expressed  his  childish  re- 
gret. I  was  sorry,  too;  but  it  happened  that 
Vincent  O'Brien  was  ill.  This  made  it  neces- 
sary to  get  a  substitute  accompanist,  who  had  not 
had  time  to  rehearse  the  music  of  Cyril's  pet 

315 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

song.  At  a  later  concert,  however,  the  boy  had 
his  wish  fulfilled ;  he  told  me,  on  the  way  home, 
that  it  sounded  better  in  the  'large  place'  than  in 
our  music-room,  which  was  where  he  had  always 
heard  it." 

Melbourne,  Adelaide,  Brisbane,  Rockhamp- 
ton,  Newcastle,  Towoomba,  Bendigo  and  Gee- 
long  welcomed  the  tenor  with  no  diminution  of 
the  enthusiasm  which  Sidney  audiences  had 
shown.  He  gave  several  concerts  in  each  city, 
and  still  the  people  continued  going  to  them — 
usually  in  numbers  too  large  to  permit  all  gain- 
ing admission  to  the  hall. 

At  Adelaide,  after  the  farewell  programme,  a 
crowd  numbering  several  hundred  gathered  about 
the  stage  door.  When  McCormack  came  out  a 
spokesman  made  his  way  to  us  and  said:  "Give 
us  one  more  matinee,  John,  to-morrow." 

"But  there's  no  time  to  let  the  people  know," 
replied  the  tenor.  "Time  enough,"  retorted  the 
spokesman.  So  John  consented.  His  an- 
nouncements were  carried  in  the  morning  news- 
papers, and  before  noon  every  ticket  in  the  house 
had  been  sold. 

"It  was  like  that  throughout  the  tour,"  con- 
tinued John.  "The  receptions  I  got  at  the  stage 

316 


AMERICAN  CONCERTS 

doors  as  I  went  out  from  a  concert  became  a  reg- 
ular occurrence.  And  the  night  of  my  Sydney 
farewell  the  enthusiasts  assembled  and,  as  I  came 
from  the  hall,  began  singing  Tor  He's  a  Jolly 
Good  Fellow.'  The  people  used  to  crowd  round 
my  car  and  ask  for  souvenirs,  one  young  lady  go- 
ing so  far  as  to  steal  the  cigarette  I  was  smoking 
and  take  it  as  a  souvenir.  I  wonder  if  she  still 
has  it." 

A  humorous  incident  happened  at  the  closing 
Melbourne  concert.  McCormack's  final  song 
was  Balfe's  "Then  You'll  Remember  Me,"  from 
"The  Bohemian  Girl."  The  words  in  the  last 
phrase  are  those  of  the  title  of  the  aria.  They 
had  barely  died  away  when  a  man  called  out, 
from  the  balcony,  "How  could  we  ever  forget  you, 
John!" — a  charming  compliment,  you  will  ad- 
mit. 

"A  most  loyal  people,"  continued  the  tenor, 
as  he  recalled  those  enthusiasts  in  that  part  of 
the  world,  "and  I  know  of  none  to  whom  I  would 
rather  sing.  Everyone  was  so  considerate.  I 
shall  never  forget  Lillian  Nordica,  who  was  pres- 
ent at  one  of  my  Melbourne  concerts.  I  dis- 
covered her,  early  in  the  performance,  among 
the  audience, — stunning  in  appearance.  And  I 

317 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

know  that  her  presence  stimulated  me  to  my  ut- 
most to  win  her  appreciation.  I  was  touched  on 
receiving  from  her  a  laurel  wreath,  nearly  three 
feet  high;  and  some  time  after,  when  I  met  her 
at  a  state  ball  at  Government  House,  where  she 
certainly  looked  every  inch  a  queen,  she  said  that 
my  singing  of  a  song  she  had  never  fancied,  'Kath- 
leen Mavourneen,'  was  one  of  the  most  satisfy- 
ing interpretations  she  had  ever  heard. 

"It  was  in  Sydney — to  go  from  music  to  medi- 
cine— that  I  met  one  of  the  ablest  physicians  I 
ever  knew.  He  was  Dr.  Herbert  Marks,  and  he 
helped  me  during  some  throat  difficulty  I  had 
because  of  the  climate  there.  One  of  his  reme- 
dies was  some  oily  preparation,  which  could  be 
dropped  upon  a  handkerchief  and  inhaled.  One 
evening,  during  the  summer  following,  at  a  Co- 
vent  Garden  performance  of  'Madame  Butterfly,' 
chancing  to  look  down  from  the  stage  at  the 
nearby  portion  of  the  audience,  I  caught  sight 
of  Dr.  Marks  sitting  in  the  front  row.  It  was 
a  complete  surprise,  for  I  did  not  know  that  he 
had  contemplated  a  trip  to  England. 

"In  a  spirit  of  greeting,  and  reminder  of  those 
Sydney  days,  I  took  from  my  pocket  a  handker- 
chief, and  held  it  to  my  face.  The  doctor  be- 

318 


AMERICAN  CONCERTS 

came  convulsed  at  this,  and  sat  silently  shaking 
in  his  seat  for  several  seconds. 

"But  Mrs.  McCormack,  who  was  also  in  the 
assemblage,  had  also  learned  of  Dr.  Marks's 
presence  there, — and  here  is  a  coincidence.  She 
had  barely  received  word  from  home  that  Cyril 
had  been  taken  ill,  and  that  'Auntie'  was  en- 
deavoring, unsuccessfully,  to  reach  our  family 
physician.  So  Mrs.  McCormack  sent  word  to 
Dr.  Marks,  asking  that  he  come  to  her  in  the 
foyer — which  he  did. 

"She  took  him  direct  to  Hampstead,  where  he 
found  Cyril  to  be  ailing,  though  not  seriously. 
He  attended  the  lad,  prescribed  for  him  and  then 
returned  to  Covent  Garden  .  .  .  but  not  with- 
out having  missed  the  whole  of  the  opera's  sec- 
ond act. 

"However — to  continue  with  that  Australasian 
tour.  I  had  been  there  but  a  few  weeks  when 
a  letter  reached  me  from  that  great  artist,  Lilli 
Lehmann.  It  had  been  forwarded  from  London, 
to  which  the  soprano  had  sent  it  from  her  home. 
It  is  one  of  the  most  treasured  communications 
I  ever  received;  written  in  beautiful  French, 
and  inviting  me  in  words  I  shall  never  forget, 
to  participate  in  two  of  the  proposed  Mozart  per- 

319 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

formances  which  were  to  be  given  the  following 
summer,  in  Salzburg,  the  home  of  the  master 
composer. 

"My  good  friend,  'Tony'  (Antonio)  Scotti, 
had,  Madame  Lehmann  wrote,  told  her  of  my 
Mozart  singing.  He  had  spoken  of  me  at  such 
length,  and  in  such  a  way,  she  declared,  that  she 
would  in  no  circumstances  be  satisfied  until  I 
advised  her  that  I  would  sing  Don  Ottavio,  in 
'Don  Giovanni,'  and  the  leading  tenor  role  in 
Mozart's  Seventh  Mass,  these  being  two  of  the 
works  it  was  Madame  Lehmann's  intention  to 
perform.  She  concluded  her  letter  with  the  re- 
mark that  it  made  no  difference  in  what  lan- 
guage I  replied,  so  long  as  I  wrote  'yes.'  I  sent 
her  a  cable,  and  did  not  hesitate  to  make  it  a  long 
one,  assuring  her  of  my  delight  in  accepting. 

"I  consider  that  invitation  to  have  been  the 
most  striking  musical  honor  ever  bestowed  on 
me ;  nor  can  I  conceive  of  one  greater  to  achieve. 
Madame  Lehmann's  letter  recalled  my  experi- 
ences in  Boston,  during  the  preparation  and  the 
performance,  in  the  Boston  Opera  House,  of  'Don 
Giovanni,'  which  I  was  privileged  to  sing  under 
that  eminent  conductor,  Felix  Weingartner. 

"It  was  said  that  Weingartner  pronounced  me 
320 


the  greatest  living  singer  of  Mozart;  but  such  a 
statement  is,  undoubtedly,  without  foundation 
in  fact.  It  would  be  too  sweeping,  and  though 
I  am  sure  that  no  other  singer  approaches  a  Mo- 
zart composition  with  deeper  reverence,  I  should 
certainly  hesitate  to  accept  such  superlative  en- 
dorsement. 

"I  do  recall,  with  the  utmost  pleasure  and  satis- 
faction, that  during  the  first  general  rehearsal  of 
that  Boston  'Don  Giovanni,'  Weingartner,  after 
my  singing  of  'II  mio  tesoro,'  put  down  his  baton 
and  applauded;  which  he  repeated  in  the  per- 
formance itself.  After  the  third  act  of  the  per- 
formance he  came  to  my  dressing-room  to  per- 
sonally congratulate  me. 

"With  these  recollections,"  resumed  McCor- 
mack,  "I  was  elated  at  Madame  Lehmann's  invi- 
tation, and  the  remainder  of  my  Australasian  tour 
found  me  devoting  considerable  thought  to  that 
forthcoming  Salzburg  festival — which  was  pre- 
vented, it  was  to  turn  out,  by  the  outbreak  of  the 
war. 

"At  the  Melbourne  races,"  said  the  tenor,  "I 
met  one  day  Clarke,  the  Australian  pearl  king. 
There  is  a  tale,  I  understand,  which  has  been 
circulated  to  the  effect  that  he  gave  me  a  large 

321 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

pearl  fabulous  in  value,  which  Mrs.  McCormack 
wears  at  the  center  of  her  necklace.  It  is 
scarcely  within  the  limits  of  truth,  however;  for 
although  Clarke  did  say  that  he  wished  to  leave 
with  me  a  keepsake  in  memory  of  the  pleasure  my 
singing  had  afforded  him,  the  pearl,  though  a 
beautiful  one,  was  not  large — nor  is  it  the  center 
one  in  Mrs.  McCormack's  string,  though  it  forms 
part  of  it. 

"For  hardship  I  recall  nothing  so  vividly  as 
the  railroad  accommodations  of  northern  Queens- 
land. The  roads  were  narrow-gauge,  the  sleep- 
ing-car berths  both  short  and  shallow,  and  being 
generally  behind  schedule  and  without  dining- 
car  service  we  often  were  called  from  an  unfin- 
ished cup  of  coffee,  to  get  on  board  a  train  be- 
fore it  pulled  out  of  the  station.  Whenever  I 
think  of  these  times  I  can  see  myself,  deserting  a 
half-empty  coffee  cup,  and  scurrying,  a  sand- 
wich in  one  hand,  a  banana  in  the  other,  for  the 
car  platform.  But  the  trip  in  this  part  of 
the  country  was  worth  while,  for  the  audiences 
were  as  'shamlessly  enthusiastic'  as  every  other 


one. 

M 


In  New  Zealand,  through  which  we  traveled 
extensively  by  automobile,  my  experiences  were 

322 


AMERICAN  CONCERTS 

varying  and  of  great  interest.  The  people 
greeted  me,  and  sent  me  on  my  way,  with  the 
same  evidences  of  feeling  which  I  had  encount- 
ered everywhere  else.  Throughout  Australasia 
there  is  shown  the  same  outward  recognition  for 
an  artist  well  liked  which  the  Latin  races  display. 
Some  of  the  keenest  listeners  in  my  New  Zealand 
concerts  were  Maoris,  who  are  a  most  interesting 
people,  with  a  lively  imagination  and  musical 
tastes. 

"One  of  the  things  I  remember  most  distinctly 
is  our  visit  to  the  Rotorva,  the  show-place  of  the 
Dominion,  and  the  finest  I  have  seen,  anywhere. 
The  guide  described  the  various  spots,  as  we 
reached  them,  in  English  that  was  a  strange  mix- 
ture of  beautiful  words  with  those  wholly  ungram- 
matical  in  their  use ;  it  was  a  picturesque  descrip- 
tion. 

"There  was  a  lake  in  this  show-place ;  its  waters 
appearing  absolutely  pink  from  the  reflection  of 
the  sunken  terraces,  and  formed  by  geysers  and 
hot  streams.  Long  before  there  had  been  some 
sort  of  volcanic  disturbance  which  had  left  its 
effects.  Even  the  fish  in  this  lake — affected,  no 
doubt  by  the  pigment  of  the  clay — were  pink. 

"It  is  small  wonder  that  I  should  hold  the  ex- 
323 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

periences  of  that  concert  tour  in  such  pleasant 
recollection. 

"I  have  often  thanked  God  that  He  let  me  live 
and  sing  in  this  wonderful  age  of  progress  when 
distance  has  been  practically  blotted  out  by  tele- 
graph and  telephone  and  when  even  the  'men 
who  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships'  are  no  longer 
out  of  touch  with  the  world  but  are  constantly  in 
communication  with  their  friends  at  home.  I  see 
you  are  wondering  what  is  the  reason  of  this  di- 
gression. It  is  an  interesting  story  and  in  many 
ways  unique.  On  our  way  to  the  United  States, 
when  about  two  days  out  from  Honolulu,  I  re- 
ceived a  wireless  message  something  to  the  fol- 
lowing effect:  'Have  heard  you  are  passenger 
on  Niagara  which  arrives  here  Thursday  morn- 
ing; do  give  us  a  concert  in  Honolulu.  [Signed] 
Adams.'  I  had  met  Mr.  Adams,  a  charming 
wide-awake  American  business  man.  Mrs.  Mc- 
Cormack,  McSweeney,  and  I  held  a  council  of  war 
at  which  we  decided  we  should  give  a  concert. 
Then  we  approached  the  Captain  as  to  how  long 
we  would  remain  in  Honolulu  and  he  replied, 
'Mr.  McCormack,  if  you  give  me  a  good  seat  and 
sing  "Mother  Machree"  and  "I  Hear  You  Call- 
ing" I  will  hold  the  ship  for  you.'  'Done,'  said  I. 

324 


AMERICAN  CONCERTS 

A  wireless  to  Adams  and  a  concert  fixed  in  less 
time  than  it  takes  to  tell  it!  We  certainly  live 
in  an  age  of  progress.  The  newspapers  pub- 
lished on  the  day  our  boat  arrived  carried  strik- 
ing advertisements  of  a  'very  special'  concert  by 
John  McCormack,  and  recounted  the  unusual 
circumstances  under  which  the  programme  would 
be  sung.  Whether  it  was  the  novelty  of  the  mode 
of  arrangement,  or  my  name,  or  a  combination 
of  the  two,  I  only  know  that  the  tickets  were  en- 
tirely sold  before  noon  on  that  day.  We  gave 
our  concert,  to  the  evident  delight  of  the  large 
audience,  and  went  our  way  with  the  conscious- 
ness of  having  done  something  unusual. 

"It  is  interesting  for  me  to  recall  at  this  point 
my  many  meetings  with  that  great  benefactor  of 
mankind,  Signor  Guglielmo  Marconi.  When 
one  considers  how  much  more  terrible,  if  possible, 
those  disasters  of  the  Titanic  and  the  Lusitania 
might  have  been,  in  fact  how  much  more  'fright- 
ful' this  cowardly  U-boat  war  would  be  without 
the  God-given  genius  of  this  splendid  Italian  pa- 
triot, I  feel  I  have  been  honored  in  grasping  his 
hand,  and  that  every  civilized  nation^mark  my 
use  of  the  word  civilized — should  perpetuate  his 
memory  and  deed  in  marble  and  bronze.  Of 

325 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

course,"  said  McCormack  with  a  smile,  "I  have 
another  reason  to  love  him  and  his  achievements. 
You  see  he  loves  Ireland,  his  mother  was  Irish 
— a  student  of  singing  in  Italy  when  she  met  his 
distinguished  father — and  he  married  an  Irish 
lady,  but  be  that  as  it  may,  my  earnest  prayer  is 
'God  bless  Marconi.' 

"I  sang  sixty-two  concerts  during  that  Austra- 
lasian tour.  I  haven't  been  back  since,  but  I 
am  going.  For  they  are  wonderful  people  out 
there,  and  they  know  what  they  like." 


326 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE    AMERICAN    CONQUEST 

"After  that  Australasian  tour,"  remarked 
McCormack,  "it  was  America  once  more.  I  can 
assure  you  that  the  sight  of  land,  after  our  long 
voyage,  was  welcome  to  our  eyes.  Mrs.  Mc- 
Cormack, O'Brien,  McBeath,  McSweeney  and  I 
watched  from  the  deck  of  the  ship  the  approach- 
ing shoreline.  It  was  late  February  when  we 
landed  in  Victoria,  and  cold  .  .  .  b-r-roo!" 

"But,"  I  interrupted,  "where  were  Cyril  and 
Gwen  ?  Did  you  leave  them  aboard  ship  ?" 

"Yes  ...  in  Adelaide,  several  weeks  before, 
when  we  thought  it  best  to  send  them  back  to 
Hampstead.  Miss  Foley  went  with  them,  so  we 
held  no  worries  for  their  care  and  safety. 

"Back  in  the  United  States  our  audiences  were 
waiting  for  us ;  and  we  presently  took  up  the  fill- 
ing of  the  score  of  concert  engagements  which 
Wagner  had  prepared.  After  Victoria  and  Van- 
couver we  appeared  in  Seattle,  Portland  and  other 
Pacific  coast  cities;  every  concert  brought  a 

327 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

crowded  house,  with  the  people  welcoming  me 
in  a  fashion  that  warmed  my  heart. 

"Nothing  at  all  like  the  concert  I  once  gave 
in  Scarborough  (England)  when  there  were  thir- 
teen persons  present,  by  actual  count. 

"However,  that  is  ancient  history  which  was 
never  repeated.  The  newspaper  writers  began 
to  regard  me  as  useful  'copy,'  to  be  regularly  used, 
and  I  didn't  object.  I  found  myself  interviewed 
in  every  city;  though  not  as  an  editor  in  a  New 
Zealand  community  once  did  it.  He  came  with 
himself  too  prominently  in  mind,  and  after  listen- 
ing to  an  extended  discourse  upon  his  peculiar 
greatness  I  excused  myself  for  something  more 
to  my  liking.  Still,  I  had,  it  seemed,  offended 
his  critical  majesty,  for  after  my  next  concert  he 
wrote  that  my  voice  was  nil,  my  use  of  it  atrocious 
and  my  enunciation  impossible  to  understand." 

"Touched  your  weakest  spot,"  I  suggested. 

"Yes,"  said  John  with  a  grin,  "like  the  fellow 
who  once  remarked  that  Caruso  hadn't  much  of 
a  voice. 

"Right  across  the  country,  eastward  from  the 
Pacific  coast,  our  concerts  attracted  throngs,  so 
much  so  that  we  found  it  necessary,  with  re- 
grettable regularity,  to  turn  people  away.  We 

328 


THE  AMERICAN  CONQUEST 

invariably  secured  the  largest  auditorium  avail- 
able, and  had  extra  chairs  placed  upon  the  stage, 
but  even  then  there  wasn't  room  enough  to  ac- 
commodate all  who  sought  admission — and  I  was 
genuinely  sorry.  I  always  am,  in  such  circum- 
stances. I  enjoy  a  'packed'  house,  but  I  do  not 
like  to  feel  that  anyone  who  has  taken  the  pains 
to  come  to  a  concert  hall  to  hear  me  is  unable, 
from  physical  limitations  of  space,  to  do  so. 

"As  audiences  in  San  Francisco,  Los  Angeles 
and  other  communities  of  the  American  far  west 
greeted  me  with  declarations  of  being  glad  to 
have  me  back  again,  so  did  Salt  Lake  City,  Den- 
ver, Kansas  City  and  every  other  city  wherein 
I  faced  an  assemblage.  Larger  and  smaller  ones 
appeared  to  be  of  the  same  opinion:  they  wanted 
me  and  my  singing  and  my  songs.  And  I  was 
delighted  to  respond  to  their  desires. 

"From  the  middle  west  we  entered  the  realm 
of  the  east,  and  in  good  time  New  York,  Phila- 
delphia, Boston,  Washington,  Baltimore  and 
other  centers  listened  to  what  I  had  to  offer,  and 
pronounced  my  artistic  wares  to  be  of  a  desirable 


nature." 


John  paused,  there.     Mrs.  McCormack  and 
Miss  Foley  appeared  to  remind  him  of  a  social 

329 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

engagement  they  had  for  that  evening;  so  when 
they  had  departed  he  continued  with  this  part 
of  his  story,  somewhat  hurriedly,  though  with 
care  for  sequence  and  fact. 

"We  crossed  to  England,  in  the  late  spring, 
and  I  prepared  for  my  Covent  Garden  opera  sea- 
son. It  was  not  long  before  there  occurred  the 
incident  which  was  made,  by  Austria  and  Ger- 
many, the  basis  for  their  subsequent  declaration 
of  war.  The  man  in  the  street  did  not  appre- 
ciate, perhaps,  the  full  gravity  of  the  situation, 
but  when  late  July  arrived  those  of  us  who  were 
in  a  better  position  to  know  were  very  grave. 
Rumors  of  war  had  begun  to  circulate ;  the  very 
air  seemed  charged  with  currents  of  dire  fore- 
boding. 

"I  was  in  Ostend  when  the  first  formal  declara- 
tion of  war  came.  And  the  day  the  German  sol- 
diers crossed  the  Belgian  frontier  there  was  a 
general  rush  of  foreigners  to  seek  places  of  com- 
parative safety.  I  had  given  a  concert  the  night 
before,  in  Ostend;  but,  like  the  others,  I  felt  no 
desire  to  linger.  London  impressed  me  as  a  wise 
objective,  especially  as  Mrs.  McCormack  was  with 
me. 

"I  shall  never  forget  the  day  we  spent  on  the 
330 


THE  AMERICAN  CONQUEST 

dock,  in  Ostend,  waiting  to  board  a  steamer  that 
should  carry  us  across  the  English  Channel  to 
Dover.  From  eight  o'clock  that  morning  until 
six  in  the  evening,  Mrs.  McCormack,  Edwin 
Schneider,  and  I  waited;  we  finally  got  away. 

"But  the  impressiveness  of  what  we  were  to 
see  will  never  leave  me.  Nearing  Dover  our 
boat  ran  in  between  a  lane  of  British  destroyers. 
It  was  my  first  full  appreciation  of  the  majesty 
of  Great  Britain's  navy,  of  the  titanic  power 
it  wields.  As  we  proceeded  through  the  pro- 
tecting destroyers  one  of  them  came  near,  and 
the  captain  called  to  the  commander  of  our  boat 
to  move  in  as  closely  as  possible  to  Folkestone. 
There  was  the  feeling  of  something  terrible  im- 
pending. 

"It  was  intensely  real,  because  there  arose  be- 
fore me  a  vision  of  the  trip  we  had  planned,  down 
the  Rhine,  on  the  way  to  Salzburg,  where  we  had 
planned  so  soon  to  go.  Schneider  had  been  tell- 
ing me  all  about  the  scenery  and  my  anticipations 
were  keen. 

"When  I  reached  home  I  found  there  a  cable- 
gram from  Madame  Lehmann,  which  said: 
'Sorry  we  will  have  to  postpone  our  Mozart  fes- 
tival until  after  the  war.'  It  would  have  been  a 

331 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

performance  of  'Don  Giovanni,'  worth  hearing, 
for  besides  Madame  Lehmann,  as  Donna  Anna, 
Scotti  was  to  have  sung  the  title  role,  Geraldine 
Farrar  the  Zerlina,  with  Carl  Braun,  Andres  de 
Segurola  and  myself  completing  the  more  im- 
portant membership  of  the  cast. 

"The  summer  was  one  of  sorrow  and  anxiety 
over  the  war  into  which  so  large  a  part  of  the 
civilized  world  had  been  plunged.  We,  in  Eng- 
land, were  of  course  very  close  to  where  the  bat- 
tles were  raging.  And  the  import  of  the  conse- 
quences could  not  be  denied." 

The  autumn  of  Nineteen  Fourteen  brought  Mc- 
Cormack  back  to  the  United  States,  and  into  full 
artistic  and  popular  stride.  He  was  an  interna- 
tional celebrity,  with  a  very  large  income  from  his 
singing,  and  phonograph  records. 

Cities  and  towns  of  all  sizes  and  inclinations, 
and  in  every  part  of  the  United  States,  wanted 
this  illustrious  tenor.  Even  communities  other 
than  the  largest  found  two  (often  three)  appear- 
ances insufficient  to  satisfy  the  popular  demands. 
The  majority  in  any  town  wanted  to  hear  John 
whenever  he  opened  his  mouth  to  sing.  So 
three,  often  four,  concerts  in  a  single  community 

332 


THE  AMERICAN  CONQUEST 

within  a  period  of  seven  months  came  to  be  an 
accepted  condition. 

New  York,  Boston,  Chicago,  Philadelphia  and 
a  few  other  centers  provided  so  many  concerts 
within  brief  periods  of  time  that  experts  shook 
their  heads  in  undisguised  amazement.  Nothing 
like  it  had  been  known  before ;  so  these  wise  per- 
sons marveled  and,  asked  for  a  solution,  gave  the 
matter  up. 

Large  cities,  smaller  ones,  and  others  of  even 
lesser  populations  appeared  to  find  a  greater  en- 
joyment in  McComack's  singing  than  ever. 
This  was  Edwin  Schneider's  first  complete  season 
with  the  tenor  as  his  accompanist,  and  he  tells  of 
the  estimate  in  which  John  was  held  in  words 
that  make  an  accurate  mental  picture. 

There  were  many  notable  concerts  that  sea- 
son— in  all  parts  of  the  United  States.  The 
newspapers  began  to  recognize  that  John  Mc- 
Cormack  had  become  "an  institution,"  and  ac- 
cepted him  as  such.  The  magazines  accepted 
him  as  "a  personality"  who  could  "not  be  ad- 
vertised," and  they  sought  him  for  "feature  ar- 
ticles" with  increasing  frequency. 

I  think  at  that  time  that  one  might  say  McCor- 
333 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

mack  had  gained  an  indisputable  place  in  his 
profession;  that  he  had  become  a  fixture,  who 
would  be  taken  (with  the  ever-renewed  and  en- 
thusiastic demonstrations  of  his  hearers)  as  a 
necessary  matter  of  course. 

To  recount  the  experiences  of  the  tenor  in  the 
United  States  since  that  period  seems  unnecessary 
— at  least,  to  any  considerable  extent.  The  pub- 
He  is  familiar  with  the  fact  that  he  sang  continu- 
ously, save  occasional  appearances  with  the  Chi- 
cago Grand  Opera  Company,  in  concert.  He 
had  previously  appeared  in  New  York  with  that 
organization,  during  its  occasional  Tuesday  night 
visits  to  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House;  but  it 
was  to  the  concert  platform  that  he  devoted  his 
chief  endeavors. 

On  Christmas  Eve,  Nineteen  Fourteen,  John 
had  thrilled  an  audience  of  one  hundred  thou- 
sand by  his  singing,  before  Lotta's  Fountain,  in 
San  Francisco.  Out  of  doors,  in  the  heart  of 
the  business  district,  this  annual  ceremony,  spon- 
sored by  the  San  Francisco  Press  Club,  is  an 
event.  And  McCormack's  singing  that  Christ- 
mas Eve  gave  the  newspaper  men  something  to 
write  about. 

334 


THE  AMERICAN  CONQUEST 

So,  John  continued  in  his  career:  mounting 
steadily,  being  honored  outside  as  well  as  within 
the  field  of  music;  meeting  personages  and  build- 
ing a  life  of  usefulness  far  wider  than  that  com- 
monly falling  to  the  lot  of  a  musician — regard- 
less of  his  eminence. 

When  John  established  a  record  by  giving 
twelve  concerts  in  Greater  New  York — as  he  did 
in  the  1915-1916  season — and  packing  both 
Carnegie  Hall  and  the  Hippodrome  (with  its 
5,000  seats)  beyond  their  legitimate  capacities 
the  public  ceased  to  wonder.  It  was  the  matter 
of  course  attitude,  all  over  again. 

Seven  concerts  he  gave  to  Bostonians  that  sea- 
son; six  in  Chicago;  three  each  in  Philadelphia 
and  Washington.  And  when  a  single  artist  can 
go  three  times  in  a  season  to  a  city  no  larger  than 
Springfield,  Massachusetts,  fill  completely  the 
largest  auditorium  there,  and  cause  so  many  peo- 
ple to  ask  for  tickets  that  they  cannot  be  supplied, 
his  position  is  unique.  Numerous  other  in- 
stances, of  approximate  impressiveness,  might  be 
cited  if  any  purpose  might  be  served. 

One  charity  concert,  in  the  New  York  Hip- 
podrome, netted  $14,000.  Another  in  the 
same  place  a  few  years  later,  for  the  benefit  of 

335 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

the  Catholic  Orphan  Asylum  of  Kingsbridge, 
brought  in  $36,000. 

That  was  the  way  of  it.  The  1915-1916  sea- 
son established  a  quantity,  as  well  as  a  quality, 
record  for  John  McCormack. 

But  because  he  had  won  his  place  McCormack 
did  not  relax  his  artistic  efforts,  nor  bask  in  the 
sunshine  of  self-content.  He  studied  harder  than 
ever,  and  to  each  public  appearance  he  gave  his 
strictest  attention.  He  was  barely  thirty-two, 
and  great  as  his  achievement  had  been  he  realized 
better  than  anyone  else  the  possibilities  which 
lay  ahead. 

For,  as  McCormack  has  already  said,  there  is 
no  stopping-place  in  art.  He  must  go  either 
ahead  or  drop  back,  and  it  was  not  his  intention 
to  retrogress. 

Symphony  orchestra  conductors  now  began 
to  take  notice  of  John  McCormack,  and  one  by 
one  they  invited  him  to  appear  at  an  important 
concert,  in  the  interpretation  of  some  vocal  mas- 
terpiece. It  was  then,  I  am  moved  to  think,  that 
the  serious-minded  members  of  the  country's 
corps  of  music  critics  got  the  complete  artistic 
measure  of  John  McCormack. 

His  programmes,  too,  were  steadily  being 
336 


THE  AMERICAN  CONQUEST 

strengthened  in  artistic  character;  and  when  he 
went  to  Boston,  and  gave  four  concerts  devoted 
exclusively  to  the  gems  of  song  literature,  any 
skepticism  was  swept  aside. 

On  one  of  these  occasions  H.  T.  Parker,  critic 
for  the  Boston  Transcript  and  one  of  the  severest 
in  the  land,  wrote;  "Idol  of  the  popular  audi- 
ences, if  you  will,  but  on  the  way  also  to  be  the 
idol  of  connoisseurs  of  song."  It  was  an  opin- 
ion, without  a  doubt,  which  was  and  is  shared  by 
the  majority  of  the  leading  music  critics  in  the 
United  States. 

But  McCormack  prizes  most  highly,  I  believe, 
the  treatment  he  has  received  at  the  hands  of  Dr. 
Karl  Muck.  Enemy  alien  though  he  is,  the  lat- 
ter's  position  in  the  world  of  music  is  supreme. 
John  accepted  the  engagement  to  appear  for  the 
first  time  with  the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra 
with  considerable  apprehension.  He  knew 
Muck's  reputation  as  a  disciplinarian.  It  was 
natural  that  he  should  have  held  an  idea  of  stu- 
pendous musical  demands  being  made  upon  him. 

"So  anxious  was  I  to  let  Dr.  Muck  know  that 
I  was  letter-perfect  that  I  may  have  been  stilted 
in  my  delivery  of  the  Mozart  aria  (a  Rondo.,  called 
'Per  pieta  non  Ricercate,')  at  the  rehearsal. 

337 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

"  'It  is  not  necessary  for  you  to  take  no  liber- 
ties which  will  give  ease  and  beauty  to  the  music,' 
said  Dr.  Muck.  'Interpret  as  your  good  taste 
and  feeling  impel,  and  I  will  be  with  you.' 

"After  the  first  public  performance,  the  follow- 
ing season,  when  I  sang  a  Beethoven  aria  that 
Dr.  Muck  accompanied  superbly,  I  stopped  in  the 
wings,  and  found  the  conductor  beside  me.  I 
was  still  in  the  transport  which  the  work  and  mas- 
terly support  of  the  orchestra  had  given  me.  I 
could  hear  the  critical  audience  applauding,  but 
I  had  thoughts  for  only  one  thing;  that  was  the 
accompaniment. 

"I  turned  to  the  sober-faced  musican  standing 
beside  me  and  told  him  that  never  had  I  had  such 
a  thrill  as  his  conducting  and  the  orchestra  had 
supplied.  And  Dr.  Muck,  with  a  faint  smile, 
made  me  an  answer  I  shall  never  forget.  'You 
gave  me  a  bit  of  a  tear  yourself,  John,'  was  his 
remark,  and  that  was  compensation  for  all  I  had 
undergone." 


338 


CHAPTER  XXV 

MC  CORMACK    FOR  AMERICAN    CITIZENSHIP 

"The  United  States  is  the  country  in  which  I 
have  sung  most  continuously ;  the  land  where  my 
career  has  been  developed  and  whose  people,  in 
greatest  numbers,  have  taken  me  to  themselves 
as  though  I  were  their  own,"  said  McCormack. 
"I  had  felt,  for  a  long  time,  the  desire  for  citizen- 
ship, and  in  the  latter  part  of  Nineteen  Sixteen 
the  decision  was  made. 

6  'America  for  me  and  for  mine,'  I  thought, 
and  I  determined  to  apply  for  citizenship  papers." 

We  were  sitting  under  a  canopy,  on  the  west 
lawn  at  Rocklea,  watching  a  tennis  game.  Two 
of  the  players  were  ensigns,  in  the  U.  S.  Naval 
Reserve,  on  leave.  Tanned  and  clean-limbed 
they  were,  average  specimens  of  our  fighting- 
boys  in  blue  and  looking  their  parts. 

"Stalwart  lads,"  said  John,  "both  of  them; 
quick  in  mind  and  eye,  and  sportsmen.  Will 
they  give  good  accounts  of  themselves?  You 
can  find  the  answer  in  the  newspapers,  any  day. 

339 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

Brother  citizens  of  mine,  they  will  be,  in  a  few 
months  more — when  I  get  my  final  papers  in 
January. 

"It  was  January  eleventh,  Nineteen  Seven- 
teen, that  I  took  my  preliminary  steps  towards 
naturalization.  Independence  Hall,  that  his- 
toric structure  in  Philadelphia,  was  the  place. 
Could  there  have  been  one  more  fitting  ?  I  chose 
it  deliberately.  That  is  what  the  word  'inde- 
pendence' means:  liberty,  freedom  of  thought 
and.  action,  human  rights  untrammeled — and  all, 
in  their  unrestricted  fullness,  to  be  had  in  these 
United  States." 

He  stopped  there,  and  watched  the  ensigns  at 
their  play.  Irishman  that  he  is,  and  with  a  true 
Irishman's  love  for  his  land  and  its  people,  Mc- 
Cormack  is  also  an  American.  Those  of  you 
should  know  who  have  seen  him  in  his  Liberty 
Loan  campaigning;  who  have  heard  him  in 
speeches  he  has  made  since  the  United  States 
entered  the  war,  and  seen  his  eyes  light  as  he 
has  sung  for  the  American  Red  Cross  and  Knights 
of  Columbus  funds. 

For  John  is  a  fighter  for  whatever  he  has 
given  his  heart  to.  He  was  most  anxious  to  join 
the  service  and  he  has  not  yet  given  up  hope. 

340 


FOR  AMERICAN  CITIZENSHIP 

When  he  stood  before  President  Wilson,  tender- 
ing his  services  to  sing  to  the  American  soldiers 
on  the  western  battle-front  wherever  he  might 
be  sent,  the  President  replied: 

"  'We  cannot  all  do  the  same  things,  and  those 
of  us  who  stay  at  home  and  religiously  perform 
our  duties  here  as  Americans  are  doing  just  as 
much  for  the  cause  as  the  soldiers  in  the  trenches. 
But  I  would  not  wish  for  one  moment  that  a 
spirit  of  hate  should  enter  into  our  hearts,  for 
were  that  to  occur  we  should  be  swerving  from 
principles  which  are  among  those  for  which  we 
stand,  and  any  such  spirit  of  hate  would  rob  us 
of  the  efficiency  which  at  this  time  we  need. 

"  'I  know,  Mr.  McCormack,  that  you  are  fond 
of  sports,  of  contests  between  boxers.  You  are 
aware  that  when  a  boxer  sees  red  he  endangers 
his  chances  of  winning.  So  we  must  not  allow 
hate  to  enter  our  hearts,  and  somebody  over  here 
must  help  to  that  end  by  keeping  the  fountains 
of  sentiment  flowing.' : 

What  McCormack  did  for  the  Knights  of 
Columbus  and  the  American  Red  Cross  is  in  it- 
self a  story,  to  which  we  shall  presently  come. 
Just  now,  to  round  out  the  notable  moments  in 
John's  life  during  Nineteen  Sixteen  and  Seven- 

341 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

teen,  there  are  two  events  to  be  recorded :  the  ban- 
quet tendered  him  by  old-time  associates  of  Sum- 
merhill  College,  at  the  Biltmore  Hotel,  in  New 
York  on  May  fifteenth  of  the  former  year,  and  the 
conferring  upon  him  of  the  degree  of  Doctor  of 
Literature  by  Holy  Cross  College,  of  Worcester, 
Massachusetts,  sixteen  months  later. 

Seventy-five  men  were  of  the  party  which  as- 
sembled at  the  Summerhill  dinner  to  McCor- 
mack,  the  only  laymen  present,  excepting  the 
guest  of  honor,  being  the  Hon.  W.  Bourke  Coch- 
ran  and  the  Hon.  John  C.  McGuire  (both  Sum- 
merhill alumni),  Charles  L.  Wagner,  Denis  F. 
McSweeney  and  Thomas  J.  Shanley. 

The  Right  Reverend  Michal  J.  Curley,  Bishop 
of  St.  Augustine,  was  to  have  delivered  the  prin- 
cipal address.  McCormack  anticipated,  eagerly, 
having  his  old  friend  there — especially  in  the 
capacity  planned.  But  his  duties  interfered,  and 
Bishop  Curley,  at  a  late  hour,  was  obliged  to  dis- 
appoint. He  sent  for  the  occasion  a  letter,  how- 
ever, to  be  read  by  his  nephew,  the  Reverend  Wil- 
liam Fallon,  and  in  it  he  wrote: 

"I  regret  my  inability  to  be  with  you  in  per- 
son at  this  great  gathering,  but  I  am  there  in 
spirit,  and  from  my  heart  of  hearts  I  wish  my 

342 


FOR  AMERICAN  CITIZENSHIP 

friend,  John  McCormack,  continued  prosperity 
and  success.  True  to  his  splendid  Irish  faith, 
to  the  grand  old-time  Celtic  traditions,  he  is 
hailed  to-day  as  a  credit  to  Irish  Ireland,  and  cen- 
turies from  now  his  name  will  be  written  on  the 
pages  of  Ireland's  story  as  her  greatest  gift  to  the 
world  of  song." 

After  Bourke  Cochran  and  others  had  spoken, 
the  Reverend  William  Livingston,  pastor  of  St. 
Gabriel's  Church,  New  York,  delivered  his  ad- 
dress. It  was  in  part  as  follows : 

"Now  that  so  many  true  and  beautiful  tributes 
of  esteem  have  been  paid  to  Mr.  McCormack; 
now  that  so  many  flattering  words  of  praise  have 
been  wafted  to  his  ears;  now  that  so  many  fra- 
grant garlands  of  affection  have  been  laid  at  his 
feet,  may  we  not  consider  for  a  moment  the  rather 
serious  question  of  our  personal  duty  to  him  in 
the  days  that  are  to  come? 

"Great  men  have  always  been  surrounded  by 
a  guard  of  honor  on  special  occasions,  and  by 
a  bodyguard  in  times  of  danger,  when  protection 
was  deemed  to  be  either  prudent  or  necessary. 
If  then  we  are  so  proud  to  call  ourselves  Mr. 
McCormack's  guard  of  honor  to-night,  should  we 
not  feel  bound  by  a  high  and  holy  obligation  to 

343 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

call  ourselves  and  to  be  his  devoted  bodyguard 
at  all  times  in  the  future?  If  it  be  true  that 
'death  loves  a  shining  mark,'  as  Young  said  long 
ago,  it  may  surely  be  said  that  jealousy  and  ig- 
norance always  turn  their  attention  in  the  same 
brilliant  direction.  In  these  days  of  ours,  even 
as  in  former  times,  every  man  who  attains  dis- 
tinction is  subject  to  the  calumnies  of  the  en- 
vious and  the  suspicions  of  the  unthinking.  The 
character  of  George  Washington  was  bitterly  as- 
sailed during  his  lifetime,  though  now  no  man 
dare  raise  his  voice  against  the  Father  of  our 
Country.  Even  Our  Blessed  Lord  did  not 
escape  the  tooth  of  malice  and  the  tongue  of 
calumny,  though  He  came  to  teach  the  law  of 
love  for  all  mankind.  Surely  then,  if  that  law 
of  love  is  to  be  observed  by  the  laity,  we  of  the 
clergy,  whose  office  is  to  preach  charity,  should 
be  the  first,  not  only  to  practise  that  divine  vir- 
tue, but  also  to  rebuke  those  who  may  seem  to  for- 
get its  existence.  Surely  then,  as  Irishmen  and 
priests,  we  shall  be  on  guard  at  all  times,  ready 
to  defend  the  good  name  of  one  who  is  so  dear 
to  us,  even  as  we  would  defend  our  own.  We 
have  placed  that  name  on  a  throne  to-night;  let 
it  be  ours  to  see  that  no  man  dares  to  tear  it  down. 

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FOR  AMERICAN  CITIZENSHIP 

"Again,  it  may  be  safely  asserted  that  from 
the  beginning  of  time  men  have  had  different 
opinions  as  to  the  best  means  of  attaining  a  great 
end.  Such  a  difference  of  opinion  exists  among 
our  people  to-day.  Some  men  are  positive  that 
constitutional  agitation  is  the  only  safe  road  that 
leads  to  Irish  freedom.  Others  assert  that  this 
road  has  led  to  merely  another  form  of  slavery 
and  will  lead  to  worse  in  the  future,  namely,  the 
gradual  but  utter  extinction  of  Ireland's  undeni- 
able intellectuality,  Ireland's  age-long  love  of 
freedom  and  Ireland's  world-famed  fidelity  to  the 
'faith  once  delivered  to  the  saints.'  This  differ- 
ence of  opinion  is  not  disunion  and  it  is  not  a 
thing  to  be  ashamed  of,  no  matter  what  be  said  to 
the  contrary. 

"Mr.  McCormack  is  doing  work  for  Ireland 
to-day  that  no  other  man  on  earth  can  do.  He 
is  convincing  a  hitherto  unbelieving  world  that 
Irish  music  is  eminently  fit  to  take  its  place 
among  the  compositions  of  the  great  masters,  that 
its  soul  and  expression  should  receive  due  consid- 
eration from  all  true  artists,  and  that  its  inspira- 
tion should  be  a  potent  factor  in  the  musical  pro- 
ductions of  ages  yet  unborn.  As  a  man  he  has  a 
very  clear  conception  of  duty  to  his  native  land. 

345 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

As  an  artist  he  must  be  a  thing  apart,  dedicated 
and  consecrated  to  a  great  cause.  Therefore,  it  is 
but  voicing  your  holiest  sentiments  when  I  say 
in  your  name  that  to  the  greatness  of  his  name 
and  to  the  glory  of  his  achievements,  present  and 
future,  we  pledge  him  here  to-night  our  warmest 
support,  in  loyal,  unswerving  and  affectionate  de- 
votion." 

A  further  evidence  of  his  appreciation  of  the 
tenor  was  forthcoming  from  Father  Livingston 
in  the  poem,  entitled  "McCormack,"  which  is  as 
follows: 

Where  Shannon's  lordly  waters  sweep  along 
In  foaming  majesty  from  fair  Lough  Ree, 

Athlone's  old  bridge  still  lives  in  storied  song, 
And  keeps  men  dreaming  of  the  years  to  be. 

Its  stones  are  gone.,  its  glories  passed  away; 
But  song-bird  memories  are  waked  to-day. 

Near  that  old  bridge  came  first  an  infant's  cry, 
A  lad's  sweet  treble,  then  a  youth's  soft  tone, 

Which  flamed  in  fervor  as  the  years  ranged  by, 
And  made  the  hearts  of  all  mankind  his  throne. 

Northward  it  flashed  to  rouse  the  sleeping  thrall, 
Southward  rang  out  its  silver  clarion  call. 

Across  far  seas  that  soul-enchanting  strain 
Flow"ed  on,  melodiously  so  clear  and  strong, 
346 


FOR  AMERICAN  CITIZENSHIP 

Till  Music  crowned  him  in  her  loved  domain 
The  master  singer  of  true  Irish  song. 

With  lays  whose  tenderness  is  half  his  own. 
He  charm,s  the  world  and  glorifies  Athlone. 

With  all  the  honors  that  have  been  heaped 
upon  him,  McCormack  still  blushes  when  a  new 
one  offers.  The  occasion  of  the  Holy  Cross  Col- 
lege Degree  was  no  exception.  He  fidgeted 
throughout  preliminaries.  And  when  the  Rec- 
tor, Father  Dinand,  S.J.,  began  his  conferring  ad- 
dress John  was  frankly  embarrassed. 

"To  sing  his  country's  songs,"  began  Father 
Dinand,  "caring  naught  who  made  her  laws,  was 
the  sentiment  of  the  seer  who  voices  the  common 
feelings  of  his  fellow  men.  The  soul  of  the  na- 
tion passing  through  the  entire  gamut  of  change 
must  sound  the  depths  and  at  times  reach  to 
heights  of  passion,  hence  the  songs  that  tell  this 
story  will  ever  be  the  embodiment  of  the  nation's 
life,  while  laws  will  but  point  the  pathways  of  the 
nation's  progress. 

"Sculptured  marble,  deftly  wrought,  silent 
must  stand  and  ever  mute,  what  though  you 
strike  it  and  cry  out  'Speak!'  Bronze,  ver- 
dantique  with  years,  can  never  be  the  sacred  de- 
pository of  the  living  soul. 

347 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

"To  a  heart  fashioned  in  the  land  of  tender 
emotions,  to  a  mind  schooled  in  the  isle  of 
scholars,  the  gift  of  sweetest  song  was  vouch- 
safed to  fill  up  the  measure  of  creation  in  the 
man  who  could  interpret  for  the  world  the  hidden 
depths  of  his  country's  treasure-soul. 

"In  fullest  appreciation  of  his  deep  study  of 
the  Celtic  and  the  Romance  literatures,  in  hearty 
acknowledgment  of  his  God-given  mission  as  an 
educator  of  the  world  in  the  wealth  of  music  and 
folklore  of  his  native  land,  and  as  an  earnest  of 
affection  for  the  gifted  son  of  Erin's  soil, — Holy 
Cross  College  confers  the  honorary  degree  of 
Doctor  of  Literature  upon  John  McCormack." 

I  was  rummaging,  one  evening,  through  Mc- 
Cormack's  collection  of  papers:  documents  and 
letters  and  clippings  of  articles  which  the  tenor 
had  placed  at  my  disposal  for  such  information 
as  might  demand  incorporation  into  this  book. 
There  were  heaps  of  them,  and  I  had  sorted  the 
lot,  and  read  until  my  eyes  ached. 

One,  however — an  extract  from  the  San  Diego 
Sun — attracted  and  held  my  attention.  It  was 
so  typically  pertinent  that  I  reread  the  article, 
alleged  to  have  been  written  by  a  cub  reporter  on 

348 


FOR  AMERICAN  CITIZENSHIP 

that  newspaper,  who  confessed  to  knowing  noth- 
ing about  music,  yet  disclosed  a  singular  capacity 
for  peering  into  the  depths  of  human  nature. 

I  do  not  seek  to  contradict  him,  he  may  have 
been  what  he  proclaimed;  but  my  opinion  is  that 
he  was  an  old  hand  at  the  newspaper  game,  who 
knew  a  story  when  he  saw  one,  and  how  to  write 
it  as  well.  And  as  for  the  cub  reporter  part, 
that,  to  my  notion,  was  a  bit  of  camouflage  on  the 
part  of  a  city  editor,  just  to  dress  the  tale  for  his 
readers'  tastes. 

The  writer  began  his  story  by  stating  that  the 
regular  music  critic  of  the  paper  (who,  if  there 
was  one,  probably  covered  fires  and  the  police- 
court,  besides)  was  indisposed.  The  cub  re- 
porter admitted,  without  shame,  his  unacquaint- 
ance  with  music  or  how  a  music  review  should 
be  handled,  and — but  here  is  what  he  wrote : 

"The  fact  that  I  don't  know  the  difference  be- 
tween an  arpeggio  and  a  coloratura  soprano  is 
what  doubtless  led  to  my  selection  to  'cover'  John 
McCormack's  concert  at  the  Spreckels  last  night ; 
it's  a  way  city  editors  have — to  shovel  out  an 
assignment  to  the  man  who  knows  nothing  about 
it.  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  knew  a  little  some- 
thing about  the  particular  subject  in  hand,  so  to 

349 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

speak,  for  several  times  I  had  heard  a  record  of 
McCorraack's  singing,  'I  Hear  You  Calling  Me,' 
and  had  wept  honest  unashamed  tears  over  it, 
and  on  the  fifth  playing,  had  threatened  to  break 
that  record;  because  I  felt  sad  enough  already. 

"Then  some  fellow  over  in  the  Spreckels  The- 
atre, who  had  heard  McCormack  sing  somewhere 
in  the  East,  told  me  I  would  enjoy  the  affair,  that 
he  sang  a  number  of  the  old  songs  we  all  heard 
in  our  younger  days,  the  songs  everybody  loves  to 
hear  repeated,  and  that  cheered  me  up,  for  I  con- 
cluded that  this  Irish  tenor  must  be  a  fairly  popu- 
lar entertainer  instead  of  a  highup  god,  whom  the 
highbrows  worship,  even  though  they  understand 
not. 

"As  to  that,  however,  I  had  some  doubts  when 
I  saw  the  programme,  that  this  Irish  tenor — 
whom  the  phonograph  people  say  they  made  fa- 
mous— much  as  Mr.  John  McGraw  might  speak 
of  Mr.  Christopher  Mathewson  in  baseball — that 
this  Mr.  McCormack  was  going  to  start  by  singing 
a  recitative,  an  aria  by  the  justly  celebrated  Mr. 
Handel. 

"And  when  I  heard  him  sing  this  I  still  had 
some  doubts,  for  it  all  sounded  miles  away  from 
anything  like  what  Sousa  or  Leo  Frankenstein 

350 


FOR  AMERICAN  CITIZENSHIP 

have  written.  And,  besides,  I  noticed  the  most 
applause  came  from  the  chaps  in  dress  suits  and 
the  ladies  in  dress  to  match.  In  fact,  their  ap- 
plause was  furious,  not  to  say  superior. 

"But  the  encore  was  a  little  song  which  invited 
a  beautiful  lady  to  sleep  on  her  lover's  bosom  and 
to  lose  herself  in  him,  and  that,  to  my  feeble  and 
non-artistic  understanding,  seemed  much  more 
human  and  much  more  worthy  of  ordinary  hu- 
man applause.  By  the  way,  McCormack  is  a 
fine,  manly-looking  fellow,  with  the  kindest  of 
smiles,  and  when  he  sings  he  stands  with  his  feet 
well  apart,  his  head  tipped  up  toward  the  bal- 
cony, and  his  hands  clasped  in  front  of  him. 

"After  his  first  encore,  he  sang  'Love's  Quar- 
rel,' followed  by  a  song  in  French,  of  which  I 
actually  understood  some  few  words,  and  then  the 
great,  rich,  noble  song  'The  Lord  Is  My  Light,' 
whose  fine  chords  of  accompaniment  made  you 
know  that  at  some  time  a  musician  had  been  able 
to  picture  a  great,  reverent  thought  and  had  done 
it  powerfully  and  nobly.  McCormack  sang  it 
that  way,  too.  Then  some  lilting  Irish  songs, 
with  the  twang  of  the  ould  sod  in  them  and  love 
and  romance,  and  a  bit  of  mischief  as  well. 
Then,  by  and  by,  'I  Hear  You  Calling  Me,'  and 

351 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

I  went  to  hide  the  tears  that  came  from  my  eyes 
and  met  a  music  expert — a  fellow  whom  I  had 
regarded  as  high-browish  and  with  superior 
knowledge.  He  has  a  fine  tenor  voice  and  uses 
it  for  money.  Rather  timidly  I  asked  him  how 
McCormack  stood  among  great  singers  ?  And  he 
said :  'Lord,  man,  if  I  had  that  voice — if  I  could 
only  reproduce  those  tones — I'd  give  my  socks, 
my  shoes,  my  shirt — honest!'  And  he  gulped 
apologetically. 

"At  the  end  they  all  stood  up  and  applauded 
and  waited,  and  McCormack  came  back  again  and 
sang  to  that  great  audience,  one  of  the  largest 
ever  in  the  Spreckels.  I'd  go  again  without 
being  sent." 


352 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

MC  CORMACK  AND  AMERICAN  WAR  FUNDS 

Tis  a  good  soldier  who  does  as  he  is  bid. 
John  McCormack  became  a  soldier  in  the  fall  of 
Nineteen  Seventeen;  enlisted  to  swell  the  ex- 
chequers that  provide  the  means  for  our  soldiers 
and  sailors  to  fight  with,  and  to  succor  them  when 
succor  is  needed. 

"Could  any  man  with  red  blood  in  his  veins  do 
less?"  demanded  John  of  me  as  we  discussed  the 
matter.  "I'll  never  forget  how  I  felt  while  I 
stood  with  others  in  a  vast  crowd,  watching  the 
first  contingent  so  soon  to  embark  for  some  point 
'over  there.' 

"Young  they  were;  among  the  pick  of  our 
youth  in  all  the  land.  And  they  were  marching 
before  us  for  the  last  time  before  facing  the 
enemy — some  of  them  never  to  ...  come  back. 
Mrs.  McCormack  was  with  me.  She  felt  as  I  felt. 
I  never  see  the  men  pass  by  with  our  banner  at 
their  head  that  I  do  not  get  a  great  lump  in  my 
throat. 

353 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

'  'One  has  to  be  close  to  them,  to  really  under- 
stand,' she  said  in  lowered  voice.  I  turned  to 
look  into  her  face;  her  lip  trembled.  She  was 
right.  Nor  were  we  the  only  ones  in  that  throng 
of  New  York  spectators,  who  felt  the  tug  of  the 
heart,  and  a  strange  clutching  at  the  throat. 

"It  is  no  effort  for  me  to  sing  'God  Be  With 
Our  Boys  Tonight,'  for  it  is  a  prayer  that  comes 
from  somewhere  deep  down  inside  me — almost 
unbidden  to  my  lips." 

McCormack  has  sung  that  song  many  times  in 
the  last  year.  Other  songs  he  has  also  sung, 
without  compensation  save  that  which  he  felt  his 
duty;  and  from  that  singing  has  come  from  the 
public  approximately  half  a  million  dollars  for 
investment  in  Liberty  Bonds,  and  two  hundred 
and  forty-nine  thousand  dollars  contributed  to  the 
funds  of  the  American  Red  Cross,  the  Knights  of 
Columbus,  the  Sixty-ninth  New  York  Regiment, 
the  Ninth  Regiment  of  Massachusetts,  and  other 
funds. 

I  learned,  quite  by  accident,  that  these  large 
sums  represent  not  only  the  net  receipts  from 
McCormack's  efforts,  but  also  the  gross.  For 
when  the  tenor  has  sung  there  have  been  no 
incidental  expenses  to  be  deducted  from  what  the 

354 


McCORMACK  AND  WAR  FUNDS 

public  has  paid  to  hear  him.  He  and  Managers 
Wagner  and  McSweeney  and  Accompanist  Edwin 
Schneider  have  not  only  given  their  services  but 
have  paid  the  attendant  traveling  and  living  ex- 
penses. 

Not  a  penny  of  the  money  was  handled  by 
Wagner  and  McSweeney  in  any  of  the  McCor- 
mack  concerts  for  the  American  Red  Cross  and 
the  Knights  of  Columbus.  And  to  fill  the  San 
Francisco  and  Los  Angeles  engagements  McCor- 
mack  and  his  management  personally  took  care 
of  the  railroad  fares,  among  other  items,  from  the 
Atlantic  to  the  Pacific  coast  and  return.  But  in 
addition  to  all  this,  where  public-spirited  citizens 
did  not  do  so,  McCormack  and  his  business  asso- 
ciates have  paid  the  rent  of  halls,  and  the  cost  of 
printing  and  advertising. 

"For  weeks  I  had  been  impatient  to  do  some- 
thing to  help  the  country  in  the  part  it  was  play- 
ing to  defeat  the  Allies'  enemy,"  said  McCor- 
mack. "It  was  in  November  of  Nineteen  Seven- 
teen, after  I  had  seen  the  President.  My  per- 
sonal interests  were  matters  of  secondary  consid- 
eration. I  must  do  something,  I  felt,  and  at 
once. 

"Soon  thereafter  I  lunched  with  John  D.  Ryan, 
355 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

of  the  American  Red  Cross,  at  his  home  on  Long 
Island.  'What  is  it  that  the  American  Red  Cross 
most  needs  which  I  am  able  to  assist  it  to  get?'  I 
asked.  'Whatever  it  may  be,  I  am  at  the  Soci- 
ety's service.' 

"Mr.  Ryan's  eyes  shone.  'The  Red  Cross 
needs  two  things,'  he  replied:  'money  and  the 
spreading  of  its  propaganda.  Many  men  can 
raise  money,  but  few  men — or  women,  either — 
have  the  power  to  stimulate  the  public  into  mak- 
ing cash  contributions  and,  also,  to  make  known 
to  the  people  what  the  Red  Cross  represents  and 
its  accomplishments.  You  are  one  of  those  few, 
because  you  have  the  capacity  to  reach  the  public 
through  its  hearts.' 

"I  was  willing,  if  need  be,  to  contribute  one 
hundred  thousand  dollars,"  said  McCormack, 
"but  I  realized  what  spreading  the  propaganda 
meant." 

'  'In  that  event,'  I  answered,  'you  may  rely 
upon  me  to  sing  as  many  concerts  as  are  neces- 
sary to  net  the  Red  Cross  one  hundred  thousand 
dollars.  And,  to  the  best  of  my  ability,  I  will 
spread  its  propaganda.' 

"On  the  following  seventeenth  of  December," 
continued  John,  "I  gave  my  first  Red  Cross  con- 

356 


McCORMACK  AND  WAR  FUNDS 

cert.  It  was  held  in  Washington,  on  an  evening 
possible  for  President  Wilson,  Mrs.  Wilson  and 
others  of  the  presidential  suite  to  be  present." 

Concerts  in  New  York,  Philadelphia  and  Bos- 
ton followed,  and  the  cause  brought  enthusiastic 
audiences  into  every  auditorium.  Chicago  pro- 
vided its  quota  of  people  and  dollars,  and  Denver, 
San  Francisco — where  $25,147  was  realized 
from  the  sale  of  tickets  and  McCormack  phono- 
graph records,  which  John  contributed  and  auto- 
graphed— and  Los  Angeles  followed. 

At  McCormack's  Boston  appearance,  at  the  big 
Red  Cross  Rally,  held  in  Tremont  Temple,  the 
throng  that  sought  admittance  could  not  be 
wholly  accommodated.  General  John  A.  Johns- 
ton, chairman  of  the  meeting,  aroused  the  audi- 
ence— which  had  previously  been  in  a  tumult 
through  John's  singing  of  "The  Star-Spangled 
Banner,"  "Keep  the  Home  Fires  Burning,"  and 
other  patriotic  songs — by  calling  for  a  rising  vote 
of  thanks  to  the  tenor.  General  Johnston  termed 
John  McCormack  "the  singing  Prophet  of  Vic- 
tory!" 

"It  was  an  experience  that  thrilled  me,"  ad- 
mitted John.  "Much  as  I  believed  I  understood 
what  spreading  the  propaganda  meant,  and  stimu- 

357 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

lating  an  appreciation  of  the  great  accomplish- 
ments of  the  Red  Cross,  it  was  only  in  the  field  of 
activity  that  I  got  close  enough  to  its  heart  to 
feel  its  real  beats." 

I  am  aware  that  John  performed  his  service 
for  the  American  Red  Cross  with  no  consciousness 
of  sacrifice.  I  know  that  his  own  affairs,  during 
that  period  of  service,  concerned  him  least  of  all. 
Absorbed  in  the  work,  he  lived  it  with  a  patriotic 
simplicity  that  was  its  appealing  characteristic. 
I  recall  speaking  with  him,  in  the  Pennsylvania 
Railroad  station,  in  New  York,  just  before  he  left 
for  the  west  to  fill  one  of  these  Red  Cross  concert 
missions.  And  he  was  disinclined  to  speak  of 
his  personal  efforts  in  the  undertaking  he  had 
assumed. 

"It  is  the  cause,  not  the  men  in  it,"  he  said, 
"which  we  must  consider  and  concentrate  upon. 
We  are  all  soldiers,  enlisted  for  specific  purposes ; 
each  having  his  particular  part  to  perform.  My 
share  in  what  is  being  done  is  only  the  accom- 
plishment of  what  my  abilities  allow  me  most 
effectively  to  do.  One  man  fits  in  here,  another 
man  at  some  other  place;  and  the  women,  too— 
they  are  doing  their  respective  tasks  nobly." 

He  regarded  himself  no  more  than  part  of  a 
358 


McCORMACK  AND  WAR  FUNDS 

human  machine,  assembled  for  humanity's  sake. 
It  was  the  attitude  McCormack  holds  these  days, 
which  points  his  thoughts  towards  the  big  things 
in  life,  and  is  making  of  him  a  singer  able  to  touch 
hearts  even  more  poignantly  than  ever  before. 
He  held  it  during  his  Red  Cross  service ;  and  the 
people  got  it  when  he  stood  before  them — spread- 
ing propaganda  with  his  song. 

If  ever  it  were  proved,  conclusively  beyond  any 
doubt,  it  was  proved  by  John  McCormack  during 
his  enlistment  (he  feels  that  he  still  is  enlisted, 
under  waiting  orders)  that  music  is  no  longer 
among  the  non-essentials.  "In  these  times,"  he 
asserts,  "it  has  been  demonstrated  that  music  is 
as  necessary  to  victory  as  munitions  and  supplies 
.  .  .  for  it  is  music  that  is  helping  to  get  them, 
by  keeping,  as  President  Wilson  said,  'the  foun- 
tains of  sentiment  flowing.' 

"The  song,"  asserted  McCormack,  "that  has 
been  hallowed  and  sanctified  by  feelings  so  much 
greater  than  any  ever  roused  by  mere  musical 
and  verbal  perfection  is  such  that  there  is  no 
longer  anything  in  the  world  with  which  to  com- 
pare it. 

"When  I  sing  'God  Be  with  Our  Boys  To- 
night' I  am  not  offering  musical  intervals  of  much 

359 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

or  little  charm,  or  words  of  literary  or  non-literary 
value.  I  am  singing  something  that  everybody 
left  in  this  country  is  singing  with  me.  Every 
people  the  world  over  has  put  itself  into  its  war 
songs  and  made  those  songs  immortal. 

"And  there  will  be  more  songs;  they  will 
spring  up  suddenly,  no  one  will  be  able  to  tell 
why.  They  must  be  simple,  and  sincere,  and 
must  have  that  indefinable  quality  which  makes 
everybody  who  hears  them  want  to  'join  in.' 

"But  those  are  the  songs  our  singers  must 
keep  singing — it's  our  branch  of  the  service,  and 
we  dare  not  neglect  it.  I  think  every  singer  in 
this  country  should  be  at  work  for  the  war." 

John  did  not  cease  his  patriotic  service  with 
the  successful  conclusion  of  his  efforts  to  secure 
for  the  American  Red  Cross  one  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars.  The  Knights  of  Columbus  re- 
quired money  for  its  war  fund. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?  How  much 
money  can  I  assist,  through  my  singing,  in  secur- 
ing?" 

Fifty  thousand  dollars  was  the  amount,  and 
McCormack's  endeavors  in  New  York,  Boston, 
Baltimore,  Buffalo  and  Chicago  yielded  this  sum. 

He  gave  concerts,  also,  for  the  dependents  of 
360 


. 

McCORMACK  AND  WAR  FUNDS 

the  Sixty-ninth  Regiment  of  New  York  and  the 
Ninth  Regiment  of  Massachusetts. 

John  will  continue  in  his  work,  whenever  ne- 
cessity requires,  because  his  heart  is  in  it — and 
he  stands  ready  to  respond  to  the  call. 


361 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

SELLING    LIBERTY    BONDS 

John  McCormack  never  took  a  course  in  sales- 
manship. He  has  no  intimate  acquaintance  with 
what  some  experts  in  that  line  term  "the  science 
of  selling."  He  might  learn,  if  he  were  so  dis- 
posed, for  Edwin  Schneider,  his  accompanist  and 
close  friend,  asserts  that  John  has  a  mind  like  a 
sponge. 

But  John  is  an  artist,  not  a  scientist,  and  it  is 
therefore  not  surprising  that  he  should  have  ap- 
plied art  to  his  appeals  to  the  public  to  which  he 
disposed  of  many  Liberty  Loan  bonds.  The  tale, 
however,  that  he  sold  two  millions  dollars'  worth 
is  not  correct.  He  seeks  no  credit  for  anything 
he  has  done  to  assist  in  prosecuting  our  share  in 
the  war;  what  he  does  insist  upon,  though,  is 
exactness,  not  exaggeration,  in  statements  regard- 
ing whatever  service  he  has  performed. 

"I  do  not  know  the  precise  quantity  of  Liberty 
Bonds  I  have  been  instrumental  in  selling,"  he 
said,  "perhaps  a  half  million  dollars  in  value. 

362 


SELLING  LIBERTY  BONDS 

One  person,  alone,  took  one  fourth  of  that 
amount  at  a  single  purchase,  and  I  want  it  under- 
stood that  it  was  a  voluntary  contribution  which 
came  unsought  and  from  an  unexpected  source — 
after  I  had  finished  with  the  actual  assignment 
given  me. 

"It  was  during  the  Second  Liberty  Loan,  when 
the  drive  was  in  need  of  every  impetus  that  could 
be  applied,  that  I  was  asked  to  aid.  McCreery's 
department  store,  near  Fifth  Avenue  in  Thirty- 
fourth  Street,  was  the  place  in  New  York  where 
I  was  sent.  It  was  an  autumn  morning,  the  air 
was  crisp,  and  I  had  abundant  enthusiasm. 

"Why  not?  I  had  something  of  sterling 
value  to  offer ;  the  inducement,  from  a  monetary 
viewpoint,  was  sufficient  to  interest  anyone  of  dis- 
cernment having  money  to  invest.  But  more 
than  that,  my  prospective  customers  stood  on  the 
common  ground  of  patriotic  unity.  It  wasn't 
'Will  you  buy?'  it  was  'How  much  in  Liberty 
Bonds  to-day?  Our  country  needs  your  sup- 
port!' 

"Stability  in  values  and  sentiment  were  joined 
when  I  appealed  to  the  people  who  gathered  about 
my  booth,  in  McCreery's.  I  had  as  associate  an 
official  bond-salesman,  whom  the  government 

363 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

provided.  We  decided  upon  a  plan  of  campaign 
— I  believe  that  is  customary,  in  selling. 

"To  every  purchaser  of  a  one-hundred-dollar 
Liberty  Bond  it  was  agreed  that  I  should  auto- 
graph any  phonograph  record  of  a  song  I  had 
sung.  For  whoever  would  buy  a  one-thousand- 
dollar  bond  I  was  prepared  to  sing  a  song,  and 
allow  the  purchaser  the  privilege  of  choosing  the 
selection. 

"You  see,  we  surrounded  our  selling  propo- 
sition with  every  inducement  possible  to  make  it 
attractive.  According  to  business  analysis,  it 
had  a  triple  appeal:  value,  sentiment  and  the 
choice  of  either  my  autograph  or  a  song,  depend- 
ing upon  the  investment. 

"It  didn't  take  long  for  us  to  get  started.  We 
secured  a  crowd,  quickly.  The  arrangement  was 
that  I  should  serve  for  the  one  day  only;  it  was 
an  endeavor  in  which  many  personalities  well 
known  to  the  public  had  been  asked  to  aid  in  a 
special  drive.  The  government  wanted  its  Lib- 
erty Loan  to  be  oversubscribed,  and  was  entitled 
to  the  enthusiastic  support  of  everyone  capable 
of  selling  and  buying. 

"I  had  seen  patriotic  and  capable  men  engaged 
in  appealing  to  people  to  respond  to  the  call  of 

364 


SELLING  LIBERTY  BONDS 

their  country  by  doing  their  duty  to  the  limit  of 
their  ability — to  buy  bonds.  And  I  admired  and 
felt  with  those  who  possessed  the  power  to  reach 
the  hearts  of  their  listeners.  For  that  is  what 
this  war  means  to  us  over  here:  our  hearts  must 
be  reached,  and  kept  beating  with  the  sort  of  re- 
sponsiveness which  will  'keep  the  fountains  of 
sentiment  flowing.' 

"Many  times,  during  that  autumn  day  in  Nine- 
teen Seventeen,  I  was  moved  by  some  incident. 
Some  one  patron,  to  whom  the  buying  of  a  one- 
hundred-dollar  bond  meant  some  personal  sacri- 
fice, would  disclose  an  unselfish  loyalty  which 
made  my  own  heart  throb.  And  there  were  more 
than  a  few  of  this  sort.  For  them  I  signed  my 
name  on  my  phonograph  records  with  real  joy; 
and  I  signed  it  often. 

"I  was  happy  to  sing — for  the  one-thousand- 
dollar  buyers,  who  were  numerous.  It  got  to  be 
like  encores  at  a  concert,  after  a  time.  And  thus 
enthusiasm  grew.  As  the  day  wore  on,  and  our 
sales  mounted,  I  addressed  those  who  were  within 
sound  of  my  voice  in  the  store." 

The  New  York  newspapers,  in  their  news 
stories  published  the  following  morning,  pro- 
nounced McCormack's  speech  as  one  filled  with 

365 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

sentiment  and  devotion.  They  laid  particular 
stress  upon  the  unusual  effect  upon  a  throng  of 
people  who  blocked  the  aisles,  listening  to  the 
plea  of  a  singer — who  also  had  unquestioned 
powers  of  oratory. 

"At  times  someone  would  appear,  and  inquire 
rather  skeptically,  if  I  really  would  sing  if  five 
thousand  dollars  in  bonds  were  subscribed.  The 
firm  had  advertised  the  terms  upon  which  I  would 
supply  the  autograph  and  vocal  bonuses,  yet  there 
were  people  who,  arriving  late,  evidently  felt  that 
my  voice  might  have  given  out. 

"I  assure  you  it  was  inspiring  to  me  to  feel  the 
response  from  those  men  and  women  who  came 
and  were  susceptible  to  an  appeal.  It  fired  me 
with  gratitude  that  the  singer  and  the  song  are 
what  they  are.  My  professional  experience 
had  long  convinced  me  of  this;  but  it  has  taken 
the  Red  Cross,  the  Knights  of  Columbus  and  the 
Liberty  Loan  work  I  have  done  to  show  me  the 
flame  of  truth  at  its  brightest. 

"In  the  end,"  declared  the  tenor,  "I  actually 
bought  bonds  for  myself  from  myself,  and  I  was 
happy  in  being  able  to  do  so." 

During  the  Third  Liberty  Loan  push  John 
helped  the  government  to  lift  it  over  the  top.  In 

366 


SELLING  LIBERTY  BONDS 

the  midst  of  his  Red  Cross  campaigning,  at  a  con- 
cert he  was  giving,  in  Providence,  a  short  but  vital 
speech  he  made  stirred  his  hearers  to  an  extent 
that  caused  a  liberal  opening  of  their  purses  in 
the  purchase  of  bonds. 

Mayor  Gaynor  spoke  to  the  vast  audience  be- 
fore McCormack  appeared.  He  told  them  of 
what  the  tenor  had  already  accomplished;  that 
$85,000  of  the  $100,000  he  had  pledged  him- 
self to  raise  was  already  in  the  treasury  of  the 
Red  Cross.  And  he  appealed  to  them  to  buy 
Liberty  Bonds. 

McCormack's  entrance  caused  a  demonstra- 
tion. It  was  some  time  before  he  could  start  his 
programme.  He  closed  it  with  "God  be  with 
Our  Boys  Tonight,"  and  he  left  his  hearers  silent, 
for  a  moment,  before  they  could  bring  themselves 
to  their  applause. 

But  when  John  returned  to  the  platform  it  was 
as  speaker,  not  in  the  capacity  of  singer.  I  think 
it  is  sometimes  more  interesting  for  a  throng  to 
listen  to  spoken  words  from  one  who  uses  the 
voice  in  song — if  the  occasion  be  peculiarly 
suited  to  it.  In  this  instance  the  people  sat, 
many  holding  their  breaths,  waiting  for  the 
tenor's  opening  words. 

367 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

"I  know,"  said  McCormack,  "that  the  senti- 
ment expressed  in  that  prayer,  'God  be  with  Our 
Boys  Tonight,'  finds  an  echo  in  your  hearts.  As 
the  body  without  a  soul  is  dead  so,  also,  is  faith 
without  good  works  of  no  avail.  The  good  work 
of  our  boys  over  there  is  going  on,  we  know,  be- 
cause of  their  faith  that  we  over  here  are  standing 
behind  them ;  they  know  they  can  depend  on  us. 
If  you  have  faith — and  I  am  sure  you  have — back 
it  with  your  contributions  that  will  prove  that  you 
are  doing  your  part  as  well  as  our  fighters  are 
doing  theirs.  Buy  Liberty  Bonds!" 

"I  had  known  that  John  had  some  oratorical 
gift,"  admitted  a  close  friend  of  the  tenor,  in  talk- 
ing about  that  occasion,  "but  he  actually  thrilled 
me  that  afternoon.  Nor  was  I  the  only  one  so 
impressed.  I  concede  to  being  prejudiced,  yet  I 
do  not  overstate  in  asserting  that  I  seldom  have 
been  so  moved  by  John's  singing  as  I  was  during 
that  spoken  appeal  of  his  in  Providence." 

"I  remember  a  very  interesting  experience," 
John  continued,  "and  I  hope  I  will  not  appear 
boastful  in  telling  it,  eleven  days  later,  in  Buf- 
falo. Walking  through  the  rotunda  of  the 
Iroquois  Hotel  I  was  stopped  by  a  lady.  She 
told  me  that  a  blind  gentleman  living  in  the  hotel, 

368 


l 

u   «   rt  £ 


s  S  §i-i 

*&     rft     C 


Sox 


S° 

g  o.6* 

°    0)    .. 

«"«5 


O  *"   rt   >     . 

U  v-   C  rt  c^ 

o  o  c  z  o 

5  "*"    3        Tl 

^  s  s  >:.s 


SELLING  LIBERTY  BONDS 

who  was  further  afflicted  through  being  an  in- 
valid, had  never  heard  me  sing. 

"  'He  has  so  often  expressed  the  hope,'  ex- 
plained the  lady,  'of  some  time  being  able  to 
listen  to  you,  Mr.  McCormack — if  only  in  one 
song.  In  New  York  we  know  that  you  sang 
for  whoever  purchased  a  five-thousand-dollar 
Liberty  Bond.  This  gentleman  .  .  .  well,  if 
you  would  sing — just  one  song — is  willing  to 
buy  one  hundred  thousand  dollars'  worth  of 
bonds.' 

"It  is  contrary  to  my  custom  ever  to  sing  be- 
fore going  on  the  platform  on  the  day  of  a  concert. 
Yet  this  was  so  marked  an  exception  that  I  re- 
plied, 'Certainly  I'll  do  it.' 

"So  a  piano  was  wheeled  into  the  room  on  the 
second  floor  of  the  hotel,  where  a  Liberty  Loan 
luncheon  was  to  be  served;  and  there  the  inva- 
lided and  blind  gentleman  was  taken.  I  sang 
'God  be  with  Our  Boys,'  and  true  to  his  word  the 
patron  bought  one  hundred  thousand  dollars' 
worth  of  bonds." 

At  the  meeting  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
House  in  New  York,  on  the  evening  of  September 
27,  1918,  when  President  Wilson  delivered  his 
great  war  address  at  the  launching  of  the  Fighting 

369 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

Fourth  Liberty  Loan,  John  McCormack  sang 
"The  Star-Spangled  Banner." 

No  patriotic  call  finds  him  hesitant.  E.  T. 
Stotesbury,  the  banker,  sent  him  one,  in  May, 
Nineteen  Eighteen,  when  the  final  touches  were 
being  put  upon  the  campaign  of  forty-eight  east- 
ern Pennsylvania  counties  to  sell  $115,000,000 
in  War-Savings  Stamps.  It  was  pledge-week, 
and  Charles  M.  Schwab  and  four  thousand  Phila- 
delphians  were  in  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
House,  where  Mr.  Stotesbury  presided  as  chair- 
man. 

McCormack's  singing  was  a  factor  in  that  meet- 
ing, which  netted  a  very  large  subscription  for 
War-Savings  Stamps.  But  the  incident  that 
seemed  to  make  the  impression  that  night  was 
in  Charles  Schwab's  words,  as  he  stepped  to  the 
spot  where  the  tenor  stood  waiting  to  sing.  With 
one  hand  upon  John's  shoulder  Schwab  said: 

"I  want  to  thank  my  old  friend,  John  McCor- 
mack, for  coming  here  to-night.  He  is  a  great 
artist,  but  great  as  is  his  art  his  heart  is  greater; 
and  greater  still  than  his  heart  is  his  patriotism. 
God  bless  you,  John!" 


370 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE    AMERICAN    SINGER 

The  day  was  sultry  and  the  humid  heat-waves 
had  sent  us  to  the  pierhead,  where  the  Cyril  lay 
like  a  sea-thing  dozing  on  the  glassy  surface  of 
the  water.  Besides  Mrs.  McCormack  and  the 
two  children,  we  were,  Miss  Foley,  John,  his  mas- 
ter-accompanist Edwin  Schneider,  and  myself,  a 
party  of  seven,  all  rather  moist  and  turning  ap- 
praising eyes  waterwards  where  possibly  bodily 
relief  might  be  had. 

Our  wilted  attitudes  made  us  look  an  amusing 
lot,  or  would  have  had  there  been  in  any  one  of 
us  ambition  to  summon  a  sense  of  humor.  But 
with  the  shore  left  behind  and  the  Cyril  tearing 
along  at  twenty  knots  we  found  a  breeze  other 
than  that  of  the  motor-boat's  own  making.  The 
lowered  temperature,  which  always  prevails  on 
water,  gradually  restored  our  interest  in  exter- 
nals and  we  prepared  to  take  notice. 

I  sat  alongside  John,  who  held  the  wheel  and 
371 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

worked  the  controls — all  like  those  of  a  motor- 
car. The  others  sat  aft,  in  wicker-chairs,  under 
a  canopy. 

"From  time  to  time  someone  rises  to  deplore 
the  managerial  recognition  given  to  the  American 
singer  in  his  own  land  and  to  ask  if  in  fairness 
he  should  not  have  wider  opportunities,  and  re- 
ceive a  more  general  acceptance  from  the  pub- 
lic," said  the  tenor. 

"I  believe  that  I  am  amongst  those  who  feel 
that  the  American  singers  have  not  only  demon- 
strated their  capacities,  but  that  they  are  now 
reaping  benefits  from  them.  In  concert  and  in 
opera  we  see  and  hear  them,  during  the  music 
season,  so  continuously  and  under  such  favorable 
auspices  and  they  are  accomplishing  such  admir- 
able things,  that  in  my  opinion  the  American 
singers  may  in  all  truth  be  said  to  be  coming  into 
their  own. 

"Inspection  of  the  roster  of  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  Company  will  disclose  an  amazingly  large 
percentage  of  Americans,  a  number  of  them  first- 
principals.  The  same  is  true  of  the  Chicago 
Opera  Company,  and  of  other,  if  smaller,  opera 
companies  in  the  United  States.  In  opera  the 
American  who  has  ability  to  achieve  is  being  ac- 

372 


THE  AMERICAN  SINGER 

corded  opportunity,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  as 
there  is  an  increase  in  the  number  of  those  who 
possess  exceptional  qualifications  for  their  tasks 
we  shall  witness  a  corresponding  gain  in  the 
quantity  growth  of  their  triumphs. 

"The  concert  field  certainly  reveals  the  Ameri- 
cans prospering  and  accomplishing  much  artis- 
tically in  their  own  country.  Men  and  women 
both  are  appearing  everywhere.  In  recital,  ora- 
torio and  miscellaneous  concert  the  native  artists 
are  not  only  challenging  successfully  those  of  for- 
eign birth,  but  the  greater  number  of  the  desir- 
able engagements  are  theirs. 

"There  are  persons,  I  know,  who  contend  that 
American  audiences  prefer  a  singer  having  a  for- 
eign-sounding name;  who  assert,  and  rather  vio- 
lently at  times,  that  the  adage  about  'the  prophet 
in  his  own  country'  is  in  full  working  order  where 
the  American  vocalist  is  concerned.  But  with 
all  due  respect,  I  cannot  agree.  For  I  think  the 
day  of  such  possible  bias  is  past  and  that  the 
period  of  ascendancy  for  native  singing-artists  is 
now  well  under  way. 

"If  we  consider  the  great  American  singers, 
pronounced  that  by  the  press  and  the  public,  their 
number  will  compare  very  favorably  with  those 

373 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

of  other  lands.  Possibly  not  in  opera,  for  our 
vocalists  engaged  in  that  branch  have  begun  but 
recently  to  develop  in  appreciable  numbers.  But 
in  concert  American  singers  win  the  greater  part 
of  the  many  engagements  to  be  had,  and  I  should 
be  surprised  if  the  next  decade  does  not  bring 
opera-singing  Americans  of  the  first  rank  to  the 
fore  in  numbers  that  will  satisfy  their  most  valiant 
champions." 

John  drove  the  Cyril  to  starboard  of  an  outly- 
ing rock  and  headed  a  few  points  astern  of  a 
thirty-footer  which  lay  gracefully  ahead. 

"There's  many  an  American  singer  like  that 
sloop  yonder :  capable,  personally  impressive  and 
succeeding  in  the  chosen  element.  I  rejoice  that 
singers  born  in  the  United  States  have  such  un- 
deniably exceptional  talents  and  that  they  are 
putting  them  to  proper  advantage. 

"Nowhere  in  the  world  have  I  heard  as  many 
splendid  natural  voices  as  in  this  country.  You 
may  find  them  in  every  city  and  town,  in  villages 
— even  upon  the  countryside.  The  quantity  of 
American  singing  material  now  being  developed 
is  colossal.  I  would  not  wish  to  intimate  that 
the  major  part  will  bloom,  but  enough  will  in 
time  to  allow  favorable  competition  with  foreign- 

374 


THE  AMERICAN  SINGER 

ers.     And  from  it  there  will  emerge,  I  feel,  more 
than  a  few  sterling  artists. 

"I  believe  we  must  go  far  to  find  foreign-born 
artists  whose  successes  equal  those  that  have 
came  to  Lillian  Nordica,  Emma  Eames,  Mary 
Garden,  Geraldine  Farrar,  Olive  Fremstad  and 
Louise  Homer — to  name  a  few  whose  operatic 
reputations  are  preeminent.  Doesn't  it  indicate 
that  where  exceptional  abilities  are  present  in  a 
singer  the  singer  achieves  and  is  recognized?  I 
might  go  on  and  name  other  native  artists  who 
have  triumphed,  and  are  triumphing,  if  it  were 
necessary;  but  if  anyone  will  stop  and  mentally 
go  over  a  list  of  those  known  to  have  prospered 
artistically  and  in  the  public's  estimation  the 
proofs  will  appear  in  themselves  and  clearly. 

"In  both  the  Metropolitan  and  the  Chicago 
companies  there  is  scarcely  a  performance 
wherein  at  least  one  American  singer,  and  oft- 
ener  more  than  one,  is  in  the  cast.  A  generous 
number  of  first-roles  are  allotted  our  singers;  if 
there  be  some  who  would  like  to  see  increased 
representation  in  this  respect  I  believe  some  com- 
pensation is  provided  in  the  truly  predominating 
appearance  of  Americans  in  parts  of  secondary 
importance. 

375 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

"Sopranos  and  mezzos  and  contraltos,  tenors, 
baritones  and  bassos  who  are  Americans  may  be 
heard  in  leading  roles  in  both  of  our  largest  opera 
companies.  And  a  comparison  of  the  frequency 
of  their  singing  and  their  number  with  what  ob- 
tained in  these  respects  a  dozen  years  ago  will 
show  the  growth  of  both  to  be  astonishing.  In 
these  circumstances  is  it  not  within  reason  to  as- 
sume that  another  ten  years  will  place  the  Amer- 
ican singer  in  a  stronger  position  operatically  than 
that  now  occupied,  and  add  to  the  quantity  which 
is  winning  on  sheer  ability?  ' 

Dead  ahead  at  that  moment  we  saw  something 
running  low  in  the  water.  It  was  half  a  mile  off, 
not  readily  distinguishable  and  our  attention  was 
drawn  to  the  object  by  a  cry  from  Cyril,  whose 
sharp  eyes  first  saw  it.  "A  submarine!"  he  ex- 
claimed. And  so  it  proved. 

John  twisted  the  wheel  and  the  Cyril's  bow 
swerved  to  starboard.  That  brought  within  our 
area  of  vision  what  we  had  not  noticed  until  then 
— another  craft  several  hundred  yards  astern  of 
what  appeared  to  be  a  submarine.  Looking  we 
discovered  a  patrol  steamer.  She  rode  high 
enough  for  classification ;  her  appearance  slightly 
resembling  a  destroyer.  Up  forward  we  could 

376 


THE  AMERICAN  SINGER 

make  out  a  gun  and  about  it  a  group  of  naval  boys 
very  evidently  on  the  job. 

Our  motor-boat,  as  John  opened  wide  the  throt- 
tle, leaped  ahead  still  faster,  every  minute  carry- 
ing us  closer  to  that  low-lying  thing  of  gray  which 
was  now  unquestionably  an  American  submarine 
of  the  K  type,  running  awash.  She  was  moving 
leisurely,  and  our  flag  floated  from  a  mast.  Sev- 
eral figures,  in  uniform,  were  discernible  on  the 
bridge ;  one  surveying  us  through  a  glass. 

We  ran  as  close  as  we  dared,  swerved  sharply 
to  starboard  again  and  passing  on  circled  the  stern 
of  the  patrol.  We  waved,  got  our  answer  from 
the  crew  on  deck,  and  continued  our  course.  As 
John  slowed  the  speed  of  the  Cyril  he  turned  to 
me  and  spoke. 

"Doesn't  it  give  one  a  thrill  to  see  those  de- 
fenders? A  sense  of  grateful  security;  of  con- 
fidence in  what  this  country  is  doing,  here  and 
over  there?  If  we  can  develop  a  fighting-force 
in  the  short  time  we  have,  and  give  them  the 
necessary  support  on  sea  as  well  as  land,  it  should 
be  reasonable  to  assume  that  American  singers 
can  find  their  places,  and  the  best  ones  too,  just 
as  surely  in  opera. 

"It  needs  only  the  serious  study  required  to 
377 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

win  foremost  operatic  positions,  and  the  other 
essentials  that  go  with  serious  study.  For  nat- 
ural voice  and  operatic  talent  unquestionably 
abound  in  this  country.  Nor  do  I  feel  that  the 
public  will  be  any  less  loyal  in  extending  recog- 
nition and  support  to  its  opera  singers  than  to 
its  soldiers  and  sailors. 

"When  we  scrutinize  American  singers  in  the 
concert  field  there  is  really  little  to  justify  any 
complaint  that  they  are  without  prestige  and 
plenty  to  do.  The  public,  moreover,  seems  ready 
and  waiting  for  them,  for  it  welcomes  them  again 
and  again.  Everywhere  I  go  in  the  United  States 
I  hear,  on  every  side,  expressions  of  approval  for 
the  achievements  of  singer  after  singer  who  has 
been  born  in  this  land.  And  if  we  would  look 
for  evidence  of  who  they  are  and  what  they  have 
done  it  is  necessary  to  go  no  farther  than  to  point 
to  Alma  Gluck  and  Reinald  Werrenrath — and 
there  are  others,  besides." 

A  cloud  drifted  over  the  sun  just  then,  and 
looking  overhead  we  saw  from  the  west  other 
clouds,  black  and  quick-moving.  "A  squall," 
announced  John;  "we  shall  have  to  run  for  it." 
When  we  had  docked  and  reached  the  McCor- 

378 


THE  AMERICAN  SINGER 

mack  veranda,  the  tenor  finished  with  his  opin- 
ions. 

"Personally  I  have  the  highest  admiration  for 
American  singers  and  for  their  future.  They 
have  voice,  musical  natures,  intelligence,  indus- 
try and  perseverance.  They  are  coming  fast  and 
will  not  be  denied,  and  to  those  who  are  not  over- 
impatient  and  learn  that  progress  cannot  be 
forced  there  is  a  reward  and  a  public  of  their 
own  people  who  will  greet  them  with  open  arms." 


379 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

SONGS    FOR    THE    CONCERT    PROGRAMME 

Mrs.  McCormack,  her  sister  and  the  two  chil- 
dren had  gone  to  a  neighbor's  to  play  tennis,  the 
weather  had  turned  cool,  and  I  descended  from 
the  study  to  the  veranda  for  a  breath  in  the  pure 
air  and  a  general  look  around.  I  was  standing 
there  when  John  appeared,  fresh  from  a  trip  to 
the  city,  as  exuberant  as  a  small  boy. 

"Some  new  songs,"  he  announced,  "dug  out 
of  the  library — and  several  you  never  heard." 

I  didn't  enter  a  denial.  John  is  rather  sure  of 
his  facts. 

"I  had  the  same  experience,  last  year,  in  the 
Boston  library.  I  met  Philip  Hale,  the  critic, 
and  showed  him  songs  he  had  never  seen."  The 
tenor  surveyed  me  triumphantly.  Hale  is  one  of 
our  musical  scholars;  few  have  a  chance  with 
him — a  veritable  human  encyclopaedia  of  music. 
I  entertained  no  desire  to  match  my  knowledge 
with  his,  so,  by  maneuvering,  I  extricated  myself 
from  that  position  by  encouraging  John  to  talk. 

380 


THE  CONCERT  PROGRAMME 

"After  all,  what's  in  a  song?"  he  demanded. 
"A  message  people  can  understand.  Melody, 
first,  set  to  text  that  conveys  something  to  heart 
and  mind.  One  of  the  difficult  tasks  of  my  pro- 
fession, and  as  important  as  the  actual  singing, 
is  the  choice  of  material  for  my  programmes,  and 
its  arrangement.  Programme-making  has  been 
declared  an  art,  and  that  it  is.  Occasionally 
some  erudite  musician  attempts  to  treat  it  as  a 
science,  and  discovers  something  gone  wrong. 
The  solution  is  easy :  one  cannot  apply  the  square 
and  other  measuring  instruments  to  human  emo- 
tions. Not,  at  least,  where  music  prevails. 

"I  build  my  programme  in  a  set  way,"  said  the 
tenor,  "and  never  vary  from  it.  The  formula  is 
this: 

"First,  I  give  my  audiences  the  songs  I  love. 

"Second,  I  give  them  songs  they  ought  to  like, 
and  will  like  when  they  hear  them  often  enough. 

"Third,  I  give  them  the  folksongs  of  my  na- 
tive land,  which  I  hold  to  be  the  most  beautiful 
of  any  music  of  this  kind — this  is  song  propa- 
ganda. 

"Fourth,  I  give  my  audiences  songs  they  want 
to  hear,  for  such  songs  they  have  every  right  to 
expect.  If  I  were  to  speak  to  an  audience  before 

381 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

beginning  a  programme  I  probably  should  say 
something  like  this:  'I  thank  you  with  all  my 
heart  for  being  here,  and  I'll  do  my  best  to  make 
you  glad  you've  come.' 

"And  whilst  on  the  subject  of  audiences  I  want 
to  say  that  they  have  rights  the  artist  should  at 
all  times  respect.  We  hear  occasional  objections 
to  what  is  termed  'the  encore  nuisance.'  I  hope 
I  shall  never  come  to  regard  in  that  way  the  desire 
for  additional  singing  of  those  who  come  to  a  con- 
cert to  hear  me.  It  really  is  a  tribute  which  one 
should  esteem ;  I  know  I  do.  It  is  as  if  they  said : 
'That  is  beautiful;  please  give  us  more.'  I  know 
I  should  feel  lost  were  encores  not  requested 
through  applause,  and  I  wish  to  say  that  if  the 
day  ever  comes  when  my  hearers  do  not  want  me 
to  give  them  encores  I  shall  consider  it  time  to 
stop  singing. 

"We  have,  I  believe,  two  kinds  of  music:  one 
kind  for  our  feelings  and  another  for  our  purely 
intellectual  side.  You  frequently  hear  some  mu- 
sician praising  a  musical  composition  which  has 
neither  inspiration  nor  mood.  'Splendidly 
written,'  pronounces  the  musician,  overlooking 
the  paucity  of  the  content.  But  technique  never 
will  cover,  for  the  people,  any  lack  of  melody. 

382 


THE  CONCERT  PROGRAMME 

"The  first  duty  of  any  artist  to  his  public  is  to 
consider  its  tastes.  He  may  cultivate  them,  if  he 
can,  but  he  must  do  so  wisely — so  that  the  people 
may  not  be  made  aware  that  they  are  being  edu- 
cated. To  them  that  is  distasteful ;  Oscar  Ham- 
merstein  admitted  that  it  was  unfortunate  that  he 
should  have  designated  his  preliminary  season  at 
the  Manhattan  in  the  fall  of  Ninteen  Hundred 
Nine  as  'educational.'  He  admitted  it,  too,  in  a 
curtain  speech  at  the  close  of  his  effort. 

"My  way,"  confessed  the  tenor,  "is  to  stimu- 
late— by  an  easy  and  imperceptible  route — in  the 
audiences  I  sing  to,  the  desire  for  some  songs  that 
are  of  the  best.  It  is  a  delicate  procedure.  One 
must  go  cautiously,  and  go  slow.  An  exceed- 
ingly small  part  of  the  public  truly  seeks  a 
concert  which  has  as  offerings  only  the  songs  of 
the  masters.  And  as  my  audiences  are  invari- 
ably of  great  size,  with  the  majority  having  sim- 
ple musical  tastes,  I  have  those  tastes  to  respect. 
After  years  of  endeavor  I  have  succeeded,  grad- 
ually, in  incorporating  into  a  programme  from 
six  to  eight  song  compositions  of  genuine  musical 
substance ;  and  I  have  managed  to  hold  the  atten- 
tion of  each  audience  during  the  interpretation  of 
these  'better'  songs. 

383 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

"And  this  is  what  has  happened.  Little  by 
little,  the  'better'  song  has  come  to  be  compre- 
hended and  then  thoroughly  understood.  All 
the  while  I  have  given  them  generously  the  sim- 
ple songs,  songs  that  many  pronounce  inferior. 
They  may  be  that,  musically.  I  admit  that  many 
I  use  are  not  'classics,'  but  if  they  give  pleasure 
to  my  hearers  do  they  not  serve  a  useful  purpose? 
I  think  so. 

"I  am  aware  that  some  so-called  'highbrows' 
charge  me  with  singing  'popular  stuff.'  So  I  do, 
and  I  am  proud  to  be  able  to  sing  it  so  that  this 
'popular  stuff'  performs  its  mission:  a  mission 
that  banishes  sadness  from  darkened  hearts,  that 
turns  the  thoughts  in  the  way  they  should  go, 
that  lifts  and  encourages — or  sends  a  tear  into  the 
eye.  If  a  song  that  appeals  to  our  better  nature 
happens  to  have  a  sentimental  touch  which  is 
simple  enough  to  reach  the  simplest  heart,  is  it 
any  the  less  a  song  having  a  purpose  than  some 
song,  more  finely  made  musically,  which  touches 
only  the  few?  From  an  aesthetic  standpoint  I 
concede  the  connoisseur's  objection,  but  two  va- 
rieties of  tastes  require  my  consideration,  and  I 
must  heed  them. 

"If  a  professor  of  mathematics  were  to  jump, 
384 


THE  CONCERT  PROGRAMME 

or  to  attempt  to  jump,  his  class  in  arithmetic  to 
calculus  without  any  intermediate  steps  his  pupils 
could  not  understand.  To  their  minds  calculus 
would  be  as  blank  as  to  the  poor  whites  of  the 
South.  I  recognize  that  the  bulk  of  my  audi- 
ences must  be  introduced,  by  degrees,  to  the  finer 
composers.  By  this  method,  hearing  a  song  or 
two  at  a  time,  they  unconsciously  gain  some  com- 
prehension of  this  class  of  music.  In  a  phrase: 
though  not  so  informed,  they  are  being  musi- 
cally educated. 

"Six  years  ago,  when  I  began  extensively  to 
appear  in  the  United  States  in  concerts,  my  object 
was  to  please  my  auditors.  I  have  stated  before, 
in  this  book,  that  the  greatest  things  are  the  sim- 
plest. That  sounds  paradoxical,  in  a  way;  but 
I  will  explain  by  saying  that  the  most  difficult, 
phrase  to  sing  is  one  in  which  one  tone  is  joined 
to  another  in  a  manner  that  allows  no  break — 
what  we  call  cantilena  or  legato.  So,  with  the 
song,  it  requires  the  more  consummate  art  to 
interpret  the  pure  and  melodiously  simple  song 
than  that  which  jumps  about,  and  thereby  allows 
for  the  concealing  of  defects. 

"I  felt,  six  years  ago,  that  I  could  develop  a 
following  only  by  giving  people  what  they  wanted 

385 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

to  hear;  thereby  prompting  those  people  to  tell 
their  friends  of  the  pleasure  they  had  thus  de- 
rived, and  by  this  process  I  would,  in  time,  find 
numerous  adherents  and  be  serving  them  in  a 
useful  way. 

"My  success  as  a  singer  of  songs  had  always 
been  rather  pronounced.  So  many  people  had 
told  me  that  my  singing  gave  them  great  pleas- 
ure that  I  finally  concluded  that,  perhaps,  my 
mission  was  to  extend  that  singing  so  that  the 
largest  number  possible  might  hear. 

"That  first  season  of  Ninteen  Twelve  and  Thir- 
teen decided  me.  My  audiences  grew  in  size  and 
in  appreciation  and  I  then  felt  it  no  assumption 
to  devote  myself,  primarily,  to  giving  my  follow- 
ing what  was  wanted. 

"Further  evidence  which  seemed  to  confirm 
my  feelings  in  these  respects  were  steadily  piling 
up.  Some  of  it  came  from  serious  musicians — 
Fritz  Kreisler,  and  others — who  frankly  told  me 
that  I  touched  them  with  my  interpretations  of 
those  simple  ballads,  which  have  been  unjustly 
called  meretricious.  I  needed  no  more  than  such 
admissions,  from  musicians  brave  enough  to  make 
them,  to  strengthen  my  determination. 

"Lest  there  be  a  misunderstanding — I  want  to 
386 


THE  CONCERT  PROGRAMME 

make  myself  clear  on  the  subject  of  the  simple 
song,  which  has  sentiment.  By  such  songs  I  em- 
phatically do  not  mean  trash  of  the  order  which 
many  Americans  know  as  'popular.'  The  songs 
like  those  of  Stephen  Foster  are  what  I  refer  to ; 
and  their  beauties  are  unquestioned  because  they 
have  endured  and  because  they  unfailingly  arouse 
our  sincere  emotions. 

"If  a  man  or  a  woman  does  not  happen  to 
understand  a  Bach  fugue  it  does  not  follow  that 
the  man  or  woman  has  no  perception  of  musical 
beauty.  The  musical  potentiality  may  be  there, 
without  having  been  cultivated.  Give  it  food 
and  light  and  air,  in  the  form  of  understandable 
songs  sung  in  a  language  that  the  hearer  knows, 
and  the  hearer  comes  to  appreciate  and,  pres- 
ently, begins  to  acquire  musical  intelligence. 

"But — and  this  I  hold  to  be  vitally  important 
— the  song  must  be  sung  to  people  in  their  own 
tongue,  and  with  an  enunciation  that  makes  every 
word  understood.  In  the  United  States  English 
is  the  language  I  use;  and  no  inconsiderable  part 
of  the  enjoyment  my  audiences  derive  from  my 
singing  is  attributable  to  this  ability  to  'get'  each 
word.  For  without  conveying  the  words — every 
word — the  heart  of  the  song  is  not  there.  And 

387 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

when  you  take  the  heart  away  from  anything  you 
kill  it." 

So  extensive  had  been  the  disucssion  as  to  Mc- 
Cormack's  own  enjoyment  of  the  simple  songs  he 
uses  that  I  was  moved  to  ask  him,  and  to  want 
information,  too,  on  the  character  of  songs  he  best 
likes. 

He  did  not  hesitate.  From  his  chair  he  rose 
to  his  feet,  quickly,  and  began  to  pace  between 
one  spot  and  another — which  is  a  habit  when  he 
is  discussing  a  subject  that  interests  him.  "I 
like  the  songs  of  simple  melody,"  he  declared, 
"and  with  simple  harmonic  construction.  I 
mean,  of  course,  the  finer  examples  of  such  songs, 
in  which  the  melodic  line  has  genuine  beauty  and 
the  treatment  is  of  proportionate  value. 

"But  I  take  the  musician's  enjoyment  in  com- 
positions of  breadth.  Take,  for  purposes  of 
illustration,  a  comparatively  unknown  oratorio  of 
Mozart's — 'Davidde  penitente.'  This  is  one  of 
the  several  unique  works  that  I  have  discovered 
this  summer  (1918).  And  it  is  one  of  the 
most  suavely  glorious  compositions  I  have  ever 
studied. 

"There  is  a  tenor  aria — called  'Bei  dir,  o  Quell 
des  Lebens' — which  taxes  the  resources  of  the 

388 


THE  CONCERT  PROGRAMME 

singer  to  his  extreme  limits.  One  must  sing  it; 
there  is  no  opportunity  for  slighting  so  much, 
even,  as  a  single  phrase.  Broad  cantilena,  dra- 
matic emphasis  .  .  .  and  vocal  agility,  too. 
There  is  little  in  the  direction  of  pure  singing 
which  Mozart  does  not  demand  of  whoever  would 
interpret  it  adequately. 

"And  the  trio  ('Wohl  dem,  der  auf  den 
Herrn')  written  for  an  unusual  combination  of 
voices:  two  sopranos  and  tenor.  That  is  a  trio 
which  cannot  be  sung  save  by  those  who  have 
voice,  musicianship  and  art. 

"Mozart  drew  his  material  for  'Davidde  peni- 
tente'  from  his  last  unfinished  mass.  He  wrote 
the  Italian  words  below  the  Latin  and  added  two 


new  airs." 


But  McCormack  admires  every  fine  song  clas- 
sic, no  matter  what  the  school.  Schubert,  Bee- 
thoven, Bach,  Schumann,  Hugo  Wolf — and  the 
representative  French,  English  and  American 
composers.  His  taste  knows  no  nationality;  it  is 
towards  the  merit  of  what  has  been  written,  that 
his  taste  inclines.  And  anyone  who  has  heard 
his  delivery  of  "Waft  Her,  Angels,"  and  other 
oratorio  masterpieces,  must  appreciate  his  versa- 
tility. 

389 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

In  McCormack's  judgment  the  greatest  song 
ever  composed  is  Schubert's  "Die  Allmacht," 
for  which  an  adequate  English  translation  is 
"Omnipotence."  "It  is  a  flood  of  exaltation," 
declared  the  tenor,  his  eyes  shining,  "the  outpour- 
ing, in  music,  of  a  poet's  soul.  Still,  my  per- 
sonal preference — over  any  other  song — is  for 
'Die  Mainacht'  (A  Night  in  May),  by  Brahms. 
Then  there  is  'Der  Dichterliebe,'  with  the  tender 
love  poems  of  Heine  as  the  musical  basis;  and 
there  is  much  else,  besides. 

"I  might  go  on,  rather  extensively,  in  a  dis- 
cussion as  to  songs,  songs  of  every  nationality; 
but  it  would  make  reading  for  the  musicians,  I 
fear,  rather  than  for  the  general  public — for 
which  this  volume  is  primarily  intended. 

"America,  I  am  glad  to  say,  is  making  strides 
in  its  creative  musical  side.  Many  gifted  com- 
posers are  of  the  United  States.  And  all  they 
need  is  time,  and  a  recognition  which  will  encour- 
age them,  to  place  their  works  eventually  along- 
side some  of  the  great  works  of  their  colleagues 
of  other  lands. 

"As  in  my  plea  for  giving  a  chance  to  the 
American  singer,  I  feel,  quite  as  keenly,  upon  the 
opportunities  that  should  be  placed  in  the  way 

390 


THE  CONCERT  PROGRAMME 

of  American  composers.  Their  efforts  should 
invite  an  outspoken  attitude  of  willingness  to  hear 
what  is  new;  not  an  attitude  of  expecting  some- 
thing of  inferior  character. 

"If  the  people  will  but  remember  that  it  takes 
a  country  longer  to  develop  its  creative  side  than 
it  does  its  interpretative  they  may  come  to  a 
clearer  appreciation  of  the  situation  and,  that 
reached,  govern  themselves  to  a  constructive 
rather  than  a  destructive  end. 

"After  all,"  said  John,  looking  with  unseeing 
eyes  across  the  sloping  lawn  towards  the  water, 
"we  should  try,  in  this  life,  to  help  one  another. 
There  is  too  great  a  tendency  to  criticise  for  the 
sake  of  saying  something  'superficially  smart.' 
And  it  only  hurts,  and  does  no  good.  Americans 
are  admittedly  fair  sportsmen — and  I  should  like 
to  see  a  trifle  more  of  that  fairness  exercised  in 
the  treatment  of  their  own  musicians :  composers 
as  well  as  singers  and  instrumentalists. 

"Personally,  I  do  not  care  for  the  music  of 
Debussy,  because  I  miss  the  note  of  sincerity  in 
his  work.  Yet  I  would  feel  guilty  if  I  were  to 
find  fault  with  what  he  has  done  in  words  ungra- 
cious. Ravel  I  do  admire,  immensely,  and 
Strauss ;  there  is  a  master. 

391 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

"But  when  I  get  to  talking  on  this  subject  I 
never  fail  to  think  of  what  George  Bernard  Shaw 
said,  replying  to  the  question,  'Who  is  the 
greatest  musician?'  'Beethoven,'  said  Shaw, 
'but  Mozart  was  the  only  musician.' 

"We  are,  however,  on  the  right  road — so  far 
as  the  American  in  music  is  concerned.  It  will 
be  some  years,  no  doubt,  before  he  gets  his  dues, 
yet  they  surely  will  come;  for  the  American  has 
the  musical  talent." 


392 


CHAPTER  XXX 

MC  CORMACK    ON    CRITICS 

"Now— for  the  music  critics!"  I  said,  as  John 
and  I  came  out  upon  the  veranda  at  Rocklea  one 
August  morning.  "Shall  we  have  them  shot  at 
sunrise,  or  frizzle  'em  in  boiling  oil?" 

"Oh,  let's  give  them  a  banquet  and  invite  all 
to  sing,  together,  'The  Soldiers'  Chorus'  from 
Taust.'" 

"Then  you  don't  hate  them?"  I  queried. 

"On  the  contrary,"  replied  the  tenor,  settling 
into  his  chair,  "they  light  the  way  for  me.  There 
are  exceptions;  once  in  a  while  you  find  a  self- 
opinionated  youth  who  wishes  to  teach  the  world, 
who  misuses  his  power — who  incorrectly  assumes 
his  functions  to  consist  chiefly  of  emphasizing 
one's  faults,  of  exaggerating  faults  of  slight  con- 
sequence. Some  few  critics,  also,  occasionally 
attend  a  concert  or  opera  performance  in  a  bel- 
ligerent mood ;  or,  feeling  out  of  sorts,  lapse  from 
their  habitual  fairness. 

393 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

"But  the  majority,  I  have  found,  strive  sin- 
cerely to  judge  without  prejudice  or  bias,  and 
write  their  reviews  accordingly.  They  wield  an 
unquestioned  weight,  the  critics,  and  are  an  abso- 
lute necessity — some  would  say  a  necessary 
evil — and  I  believe  most  of  them  try  to  give,  as 
accurately  as  they  can,  an  honest  estimate  of 
what  they  hear. 

"Constructive  criticism,  offered  by  one  skilled 
in  the  craft,  is  of  inestimable  help  to  the  artist; 
and  no  singer  or  instrumentalist  who  earnestly 
seeks  to  progress  in  his  art  will  resent  an  intel- 
ligently and  kindly  expressed  opinion  upon  tech- 
nical and  interpretative  musical  achievement 
which  happens  to  take  issue  with  that  achieve- 
ment. And,  to  be  honest,  we  resent  it  mostly 
because  it  hurts  our  vanity. 

"The  critic  may,  in  the  estimation  of  the  artist, 
be  right;  or  his  views  may  be  open  to  question 
on  the  part  of  the  artist.  After  all,  it  is  only 
one  person's  opinion,  and  may  differ  from  the 
opinions  of  that  critic's  colleagues.  But  I 
always  read,  with  an  open  mind,  whatever  a 
music  critic  writes  who,  I  feel,  in  the  reading, 
has  written  constructively  and  out  of  adequate 
knowledge." 

394 


McCORMACK  ON  CRITICS 

"Do  you  regard  it  as  an  essential  part  of  the 
music  critic's  equipment  to  be  able  to  perform 
the  thing  about  which  he  writes?" 

McCormack  dropped  his  head  to  one  side  and 
regarded  me  with  gravity.  Ready  with  his  reply 
he  waited  to  frame  it  in  certain  desired  phrase- 
ology. "No,  I  don't  think  such  a  thing  is  neces- 
sary, but  it  must  have  been  wonderful,"  said  the 
tenor  reflectively,  "for  Schumann  to  have  been 
able — as  we  know  he  was — to  write  of  a  new 
composition,  adversely,  and  say  with  the  full  au- 
thority which  was  his:  'Now  if  /  had  written 
that  composition  it  might  have  sounded  better  to 
have  done  so-and-so.'  Think,  too,  of  the  advan- 
tage the  composer  thus  criticised  must  have  de- 
rived from  such  constructive  criticism.  Such  a 
music  critic,  granting  he  possesses  the  judicial 
temperament,  has  an  advantage  over  others  not 
so  fortunate.  There  can  be  no  dispute,  I  think, 
as  to  that;  yet  a  critic  may  not  have  such  a  gift 
and  still  be  highly  competent. 

"To  be  endowed  with  the  capacity  to  weigh 
impartially  all  the  evidence  pertaining  to  a  musi- 
cal performance,  eliminating  one's  personal  pref- 
erences and  dislikes,  is  ideal.  We'll  accept  that 
as  an  established  premise.  Now — where  such 

395 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

qualifications  exist  in  a  critic,  and  to  them  is 
added  the  natural  faculty  of  recognizing  excel- 
lence and  mediocrity  instinctively,  we  have  the 
perfect  critic. 

"I  remember  a  story  I  once  heard,  and  a  true 
one.  It  happened  in  Chicago,  years  ago.  A  dis- 
tinguished American  composer,  at  that  time  music 
critic  for  a  Chicago  evening  newspaper,  reached 
his  office  one  afternoon  and  in  the  hallway  met  the 
critic  for  the  morning  newspaper  which  was  under 
the  same  ownership.  The  critic  for  the  morning 
paper  had  just  been  appointed;  moved  over  from 
another  position  on  the  staff  of  that  publication. 
He  was  an  able  editor,  a  splendid  writer;  but  he 
admitted,  frankly,  that  music  was  to  him  as  Greek 
might  be  to  a  baby. 

"The  composer-critic  had  read  his  associate's 
review  of  a  performance,  given  the  night  before, 
by  the  American  Grand  Opera  Company.  Theo- 
dore Thomas  had  been  the  conductor;  the  work, 
by  Delibes.  The  composer  was  asked  by  the 
newly  appointed  critic:  'How  did  you  like  last 
night's  performance?' 

'  'I  thought  it  exceptional,  as  I  did  the  opera,' 
he  replied. 

6  'So  did  I,'  retorted  the  unskilled  music  judge. 
396 


McCORMACK  ON  CRITICS 

1  'But,'  ejaculated  the  musician,  'you  roasted 
everything,  from  Delibes  down.' 

'  'Oh,  I  had  to  do  that;  I  went  there  to  criti- 
cise.' 

"Nevertheless,"  declared  the  tenor  as  he 
straightened  up  in  his  chair,  "I  respect  the  opin- 
ions of  every  critic  who  goes  about  his  task  with 
good  intent  and  makes  a  respectable  job  of  it.  I 
may  differ  from  him,  in  details,  possibly,  at  times, 
in  essentials ;  but  so  long  as  I  discern  sincerity  in 
his  trend,  and  intelligence,  I  will  concede  that  he 
has  the  same  right  to  his  ways  of  thinking  in  the 
matter  as  I  have  to  mine.  For,  after  all,  it  is  a 
difference  of  opinion  that  provokes  the  discus- 
sion (or  thought)  which  leads  to  progress. 

"Now  and  again  one  encounters  the  'cock- 
sure' reviewer ;  the  one  of  positive  utterance,  who 
considers  himself  infallible,  and  takes  himself, 
also,  with  far  more  seriousness  than  his  impor- 
tance should  allow.  He  writes  to  catch  certain 
of  his  readers  with  clever  phrase;  hitting  here 
and  there  with  unkindness,  and  very  often  taking 
the  heart  of  a  struggling  artist  who  might  be  cor- 
rected were  the  reminder  of  remissness  put  in  a 
helpful  way. 

"Still,  his  kind  is  beginning  to  disappear.     He 
397 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

is  of  the  old  school,  grown  ancient  in  his  trade 
and  myopic  through  having  too  long  looked  in  a 
groove  because  of  the  blinders  of  traditions  he 
has  worn. 

"Give  me,  if  you  will,  the  joyous  reviewer;  the 
one  having  in  him  human  responsiveness  and  ap- 
preciation, who  has  the  courage  to  say  'great'  if 
he  really  thinks  so,  even  though  others  hold  a 
contrary  view.  He  may  be  either  old  or  young; 
I  care  not,  so  long  as  he  goes  to  a  musical  per- 
formance in  a  plastic  mood,  ready  to  be  convinced 
if  the  music  and  performer  have  merit. 

"But,  as  I  said  in  the  beginning,  I  genuinely 
admire  the  critics,  as  a  body.  They  have  given 
me  my  dues.  We  send  them  tickets  for  a  con- 
cert, voluntarily  ask  them  to  come  and  write  about 
it,  and  it  is  we  who  must  take  our  chances.  And 
I  wouldn't  give  a  fig  for  any  man  who,  admiring 
my  voice  and  art,  refused  because  of  his  admira- 
tion to  say  I  had  not  done  myself  justice  if  such 
were  the  case.  For  that  happens;  singers  are 
human  beings,  and  not  being  machines  they  can- 
not, and  should  not,  be  expected  to  perform  with 
mechanical  accuracy  which  does  not  vary. 

"Especially  do  I  respect  the  representative 
critics,  serving  on  the  leading  daily  newspapers 

398 


McCORMACK  ON  CRITICS 

in  the  large  American  cities,  who  have  expressed 
their  growing  regard  for  my  voice  and  art  and 
programmes.  These  men,  all  of  them  splendidly 
equipped  and  speaking  from  an  abundant  knowl- 
edge, are  the  recognized  authorities.  They  are 
not  infallible,  because,  like  the  singer  or  instru- 
mentalist, they  are  only  human.  They  speak 
well  and  at  other  times  they  also  speak  not  so 
well  of  great  artists :  of  Caruso  and  Kreisler  and 
Hofmann.  So  it  is  with  pride  that  I  have  dis- 
covered my  own  position  and  powers  enhancing 
in  their  estimation;  for  that  is  a  reward  to  any 
artist  who  conscientiously  wishes  to  be  accepted 
as  such  by  those  who  are  presumed  to  know." 

It  is  a  fair  summing  up  of  the  critics  and  their 
functions,  which  McCormack  has  made.  I  can 
conceive  of  none,  in  the  whole  corps  of  the  coun- 
try, who  will  justly  dispute  the  essence  of  what 
he  has  said.  And  at  no  time  in  his  talk  did  he 
mention  by  name  any  critic  whom  he  in  particu- 
lar admired,  or  one  who  may  have  drawn  his  dis- 
favor. 

Yet,  much  as  he  respects  those  whose  musical 
education  and  geographical  opportunities  give 
them  an  advantage  over  their  less  fortunate  col- 
leagues, John  has  a  weak  spot  in  his  heart  for 

399 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

the  writers  attached  to  dailies  outside  the  larger 
sphere;  for  the  men  and  women  who  perform 
other  newspaper  duties  than  those  exclusively 
musical,  and  whose  writings  are  out  of  the  heart 
rather  than  a  musically  trained  mind. 

It  would  be  interesting  to  incorporate  in 
this  volume  a  hundred  representative  critiques. 
They  would  make  illuminative  reading,  to  many. 
But  space  is  a  consideration  to  be  heeded. 


400 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

EDWIN   SCHNEIDER 

One  of  those  drizzly  rains,  that  tend  to  stir  the 
reflections  of  a  thoughtful  person,  was  falling  over 
Noroton.  McCormack  sat  on  the  veranda,  at 
Rocklea,  engaged  with  Edwin  Schneider  in  an 
informal  discussion  on  songs.  The  pianist  ex- 
cused himself  when  the  subject  had  been  ended, 
and  went  into  the  house.  When  he  disappeared, 
the  tenor  turned  to  me. 

"Do  you  wonder  that  I'm  fond  of  him?  A 
combination  of  man  and  musician,"  he  said, 
"which  is  out  of  the  common  run.  I've  known 
him,  intimately,  for  five  years.  We've  wintered 
and  summered  together,  and  our  friendship  tie 
tightens.  That  is  the  real  test — to  develop  the 
feeling  of  comradeship  as  well  as  artistic  unity, 
with  one  who  is  almost  constantly  alongside. 

"I've  said  that  my  intimates  are  few:  a  com- 
paratively small  number  of  persons,  living  in  dif- 
ferent lands.  Perhaps  it  is  just  as  well,  for  those 
I  feel  close  to  I  like  to  be  with  as  much  as  I  can, 

401 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

and  this  precludes  a  large  friendship  even  where 
one's  inclinations  move  in  that  way.  But  there 
is  one  man  whose  companionship  I  particularly 
enjoy — Edwin  Schneider. 

"He  is  totally  different  from  me,  temperamen- 
tally. Almost  always  serene,  an  optimist  every 
day  of  every  week  and,  for  all  his  virility,  gentle. 
Schneider  is  what  I  should  term  a  gentle-man. 
A  scholarly  musician,  too,  and  a  student;  and 
with  original  ideas.  Thank  fortune,  he  is  not  a 
hidebound  adherent  to  tradition !  He  has  vision, 
and  he  likes  the  things  musical  which  I  like.  So, 
you  see,  we  fit:  in  music  as  well  as  in  less  artistic 
things  of  life. 

"It  was  a  fortunate  day  for  me,  when  I  met 
him,  because  he  has  exerted  a  positive  influence 
upon  my  career.  No  one  has  had  a  greater  faith 
in  my  capabilities,  even  when  I  was  in  doubt 
about  some  part  of  them,  myself.  From  his 
point  of  vantage,  and  with  his  intuitive  faculties 
and  discernment,  Schneider  has  not  infrequently 
observed  that  it  was  wise  for  me  to  attempt  what 
I  hesitated  attempting.  And  never  has  his  judg- 
ment been  at  fault. 

"His  confidence  in  me,  always  so  reassuringly 
calm,  has  been  like  a  tonic.  Knowing  that  he 

402 


EDWIN  SCHNEIDER 

recommends  only  that  which  he  honestly  believes, 
I  invite  his  opinions.  We  differ  in  matters,  of 
course,  and  that  is  as  it  should  be.  Still,  in 
whatever  is  vital  I  think  we  are  not  often  at  odds. 

"Before  Ted"  (that  is  John's  name  for  Schnei- 
der) "came  to  me  I  questioned  the  suitableness, 
for  my  voice  and  style,  of  certain  songs.  I  recall, 
in  particular,  'J'ai  pleure  enreve.'  My  previous 
accompanist  had  said:  'That  isn't  for  you.' 
But  one  day,  chancing  upon  it,  Ted  suggested 
that  we  try  it  over.  I  repeated  what  this  other 
pianist  had  said.  It  had  no  effect,  however, 
upon  Schneider.  He  only  said,  with  a  smile,  'I 
think  he  is  mistaken.'  So  we  went  at  it." 

My  recollection  was  that  this  song  was  one 
which  McCormack  sang  exceedingly  well ;  almost 
made  for  him.  I  said  so,  and  John  nodded. 

"That's  just  it,"  he  continued.  "Schneider's 
perceptions  were  correct.  And  that  experience 
gave  me  added  confidence  in  him.  Nor  was  that 
instance  the  single  one  of  its  kind;  others  oc- 
curred. Ted  studied  my  methods ;  he  sought  to 
discover  what  was  best  suited  to  me,  in  the  way 
of  songs,  and  was  forever  conscientious  to  aid 
me  in  developing  my  resources. 

"Sympathy,  such  as  that,  and  understanding 
403 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

bring  the  singer  and  his  accompanist  into  that 
spirit  of  harmony  which  contributes  to  a  oneness 
of  effort.  There  is  a  saying  one  often  hears 
about  accompanist  that  he  'follows'  well.  That, 
to  my  mind,  is  no  compliment  to  an  accompanist ; 
for  he  should  never  'follow,'  nor  yet  'lead.'  Al- 
ways, should  he  be  with  the  singer  with  the  piano- 
forte part  of  a  song;  feeling  as  the  singer  feels 
(in  so  far  as  he  may  be  able  to  do  so)  and  main- 
taining the  spirit  of  the  music  and  that  reflected 
in  the  poem. 

"I  always  feel  that  we  go  well  together  in  a 
song.  If  I  want  to  'give'  a  little  here,  or  'take' 
a  bit  at  another  place,  Schneider  will  be  with 
me  .  .  .  will  sense  what  I  am  about  to  do  so 
quickly  as  to  give  the  audience  the  effect  of  in- 
stantaneous action  by  each  of  us.  I  do  change 
an  interpretation,  now  and  again,  no  matter  how 
'set'  it  may  have  been  as  sung  scores  of  times  be- 
fore. Every  artist  does,  who  feels  what  he  inter- 
prets; that  is  what  keeps  him  from  being  a  ma- 
chine. It  is  a  comfort  to  know  that  when  these 
changes  occur — and  they  may  come  many  times 
in  the  course  of  a  concert — that  the  chap  at  the 
piano,  who  supplies  the  musical  background,  will 
not  drop  you  suddenly,  with  a  thud. 

404 


EDWIN  SCHNEIDER 

"The  critics  everywhere  have  recognized  these 
rare  qualities  in  Schneider.  He  has  a  singing 
touch,  and  a  legato.  His  accompaniment  is 
something  built  in  right  proportions,  like  a  piece 
of  architecture  which  leaves  the  eye  satisfied. 
You  never  find  Ted's  accompaniment  obtrusive; 
he  gives  the  singer  the  required  tonal  substance 
for  the  voice,  but  not  too  much.  And  his  pianis- 
simi  is  not  so  vapory  as  to  be  lost  on  the  hearer. 

"He  colors  the  tone,  too.  Sonority,  when  we 
want  it ;  a  rich,  pulsating  tone,  one  with  less  'red' 
in  it,  another  having  mellowness  but  not  so  deeply 
tinted.  Again:  crispness,  the  brilliance  that 
brings  people  erect  when  we  seek  a  definite  sort 
of  climax.  He  uses  the  pianoforte  for  song  ac- 
companiments as  the  painter  uses  the  pigments 
upon  his  palette.  His  technique,  likewise,  is 
ample ;  and  his  musicianship  sound. 

"I  met  him,  in  Chicago,  one  morning  when  I 
went  to  call  on  that  splendid  American  singer, 
Clarence  Whitehill,  who  was  preparing,  in  the 
Blackstone  Hotel,  for  a  recital  he  expected  to 
give.  I  liked  Schneider's  way  of  playing  during 
the  first  song  Whitehill  sang;  before  I  left  I  dis- 
covered characteristics  which  appealed  tremen- 
dously to  me.  Making  inquiry,  I  learned  that 

405 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

Schneider  had  played  for  Marcella  Sembrich, 
Johanna  Gadski  and  George  Hamlin.  I  learned, 
too,  of  his  thorough  pianistic  training,  much  of 
it  gained  in  Europe ;  of  his  recognition  as  a  solo 
pianist  and  as  teacher. 

"But  the  difficult  art  of  song  accompaniment — 
and  it  is  an  art,  which,  by  the  way,  few  pianists 
acquire — was  Schneider's  by  instinct.  The 
singer  gets  that  the  minute  he  starts  a  prelude. 
What  my  estimation  of  his  ability  is  may  be  gath- 
ered from  the  fact  that  we  have  been  together  for 
five  continuous  seasons ;  nearly  five  hundred  pub- 
lic appearances  we've  made  together,  and  that 
tells  the  story. 

"In  the  summers  we  ransack  the  music  stores 
in  search  of  unusual  song  compositions,  and  libra- 
ries. And  Schneider  knows  the  song  literature 
of  many  countries.  He  makes  something  of  the 
accompaniment  as  distinctive  as  the  melody  for 
the  voice  because  of  his  comprehensive  knowl- 
edge of  song  literature.  Every  composer  is 
something  more  than  an  acquaintance;  for 
Schneider  does  not  rest  content  until  he  plumbs 
that  composer. 

"His  equals  as  a  'coach'  are  few  because  of 
these  qualifications  I  have  mentioned.  Having 

406 


(At  top")     John  McCormack  and  his  accompanist,  Edwin  Schneider 

(Centre)     Bishop  Curley  with  Gwendolyn  and  Cyril,  photographed  on  the  occasion  of 

his  confirmation   of  the  two  children   in  the   little  Catholic  Church  at 

Noroton,  Connecticut,  in  June,  1917 
(Beltrw)     From  left  to  right:  John  McCormack,  D.  F.  McSweeney,  Bishop  Curley 


EDWIN  SCHNEIDER 

gone  to  the  root  of  every  school  of  song  composi- 
tion he  continues  to  that  end  with  each  member 
of  each  school.  When  he  has  finished  one  may 
be  sure  that  Schneider  knows ;  he  isn't  guessing, 
or  relying,  too  largely,  upon  an  accompanying 
talent. 

"He  composes  well,  also,  and  several  of  his 
songs  are  among  the  most  satisfying  on  my  pro- 
grammes." 

Schneider  rejoined  us  at  that  moment,  just  as 
McCormack  finished  speaking.  The  tenor  left 
us,  on  some  errand  within,  and  I  was  glad  of  the 
opportunity  to  get  his  ideas  on  John — those 
intimate  ones  which  he,  of  all  persons,  was  able 
to  supply. 

"I  came  to  McCormack,"  said  Schneider,  "a 
worshipper  at  the  shrine  of  his  voice  and  art;  I 
have  played  for  no  one  else  since  that  spring  of 
Nineteen  Thirteen.  I  have  watched  him  grow, 
and  seen  his  capacities  expand  with  as  much 
gratification  as  though  he  were  a  brother.  His 
triumphs — though  his  alone — are  mine,  also. 

"It  has  been  one  of  the  most  interesting  experi- 
ences in  my  life  to  observe  his  'education'  of  his 
audiences,  because  educate  them  he  has. 

"The  presentation  of  Schubert,  Schumann  and 
407 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

Franch  at  his  concerts  was  followed  by  the  intro- 
duction to  most  of  his  hearers  of  Brahms  and 
Hugo  Wolf,  and  the  modern  German  songs  and 
the  Russian  and  French.  He  insisted  on  using 
the  best  English  translations  obtainable,  because 
he  rightly  places  emphasis  on  an  understanding 
of  the  text.  And  in  many  cases  we  together 
made  our  own  translations,  especially  those  of 
Rachmaninoff's  songs. 

"Handel  and  Mozart  have  a  direct  appeal  upon 
John  because  of  their  lyric  and  florid  qualities; 
and  I  cannot  now  think  of  a  better  exponent  of 
these  two  masters.  But  his  grasp  of  Irish  folk- 
songs, and  his  interpretation  of  them,  are  things 
I  never  cease  to  admire.  He  has  opened  to  me 
the  wealth  of  this  music,  and  it  has  made  it  pos- 
sible for  me  to  appreciate  why  the  Irish  are  so 
musical  and  so  endowed  with  sympathy  and  sen- 
timent. 

"This  summer,  like  each  of  the  preceding 
ones  I  have  spent  with  McCormack,  has  brought 
hundreds  of  unknown  songs  to  his  notice;  and 
we  have  gone  through  them  with  open  minds  that 
seek  to  find  whatever  we  consider  worthy  of  pub- 
lic use.  Since  the  war  began,  John  has  been 
chiefly  concerned  in  exploring  the  song  literature 

408 


EDWIN  SCHNEIDER 

of  France,  Russia  and  Norway,  and  many  fine 
compositions  has  he  discovered. 

"There  is,  of  course,  a  mass  of  'popular'  music 
sent  to  him  in  manuscript  form — most  of  it,  I  am 
sorry  to  say,  unsuitable  for  John's  purposes. 

"The  budding  Schubert  has  certainly  weird 
ideas  of  the  songs  that  suit  McCormack.  I  re- 
member how  we  laughed  over  two  wonderful 
specimens,  called  respectively  'In  the  Subway,' 
and  'Has  the  State  of  Montana  Gone  Dry,  Mary 
Anne?'  The  author  of  this  last  priceless  lyric 
announced  himself  as  a  great  poet  and  was  sure 
with  the  co-operation  of  a  great  singer,  he  could 
make  what  he  called  'the  big  noise  in  the  music 
world.' 

"I  can  add  little  or  nothing  to  the  critical  and 
public  estimate  of  John  McCormack's  artistic 
worth.  For  me  he  is  a  supremely  great  artist 
because  of  his  sincerity.  Nor  do  I  place  either 
voice  or  the  singing  talent  above  this  quality; 
for  without  that  depth  of  feeling  which  is  his, 
John  could  not,  and  would  not,  be  the  singer  we 
know  him  to  be. 

"For  rapid  study  I  know  no  singer  who  is  Mc- 
Cormack's equal.  During  his  first  Covent 
Garden  season,  John  learned  in  exactly  six  days 

409 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

the  role  of  Don  Ottavio  in  'Don  Giovanni.'  He 
began  to  study  it  on  a  Monday  and  sang  the  music 
the  Monday  following.  Nor  have  I  yet  met  one 
who  reads  at  sight  with  his  facility  or  whose  musi- 
cianship rests  upon  a  more  substantial  founda- 
tion. He  is  as  painstaking  as  he  is  thorough,  and 
delights  to  run  through  any  soprano  aria  of  the  old 
masters.  He  is  a  master  of  vocal  agility  and  his 
execution  of  florid  phrases  is  accomplished  with 
the  ease  and  surety  of  a  coloratura  soprano  who 
is  mistress  of  her  art. 

"To  play  for  John,  in  both  rehearsal  and  pub- 
lic performance,  is  an  inspiration.  He  develops 
in  the  accompanist  the  spirit  of  what  is  best  and 
truest  in  the  art.  From  him  I  have  learned 
much;  I  expect  to  learn  more.  Having  been 
with  him  so  continuously  for  five  years,  I  have 
come  to  know  the  man  as  well  as  the  artist.  And 
I  have  felt  what  one  friend  feels  for  another  in 
seeing  him  win  what  he  has  deserved. 

"As  I  see  him  now  I  feel  that  he  is  coming  into 
the  fullness  of  his  powers.  He  has  done  much, 
but  he  will  do  more.  His  artistry  is  ripening  and 
his  vision  enables  him  to  foresee  all  that  he 
should.  Because  of  these  things  I  anticipate 
from  John  McCormack  certain  accomplishments 

410 


EDWIN  SCHNEIDER 

that  will  make  his  name  still  more  widely  ac- 
claimed— for  he  is  the  sort  of  singing  artist  the 
world  brings  forth  but  once  in  a  long,  long  time." 


411 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

REFLECTIONS 

It  was  a  few  days  after  the  Rt.  Reverend 
Bishop  Curley  had  confirmed  Cyril  and  Gwen- 
dolyn McCormack,  in  late  June  of  Nineteen 
Eighteen,  in  the  tiny  stone  church  in  Noroton, 
that  he  spoke  of  John  McCormack  and  his  voice 
in  a  way  I  shall  never  forget.  He  termed  it  a 
service  of  the  voice — the  dedication  of  soul  and 
heart  and  mind  and  utterance  to  a  lofty  purpose. 
That,  I  think,  is  the  most  expressive  description 
I  have  ever  heard  of  the  man  and  his  mission. 

The  Bishop  had  been  recounting  some  of  the 
attributes  of  his  boyhood  chum;  had  been  giv- 
ing me  illuminative  information  which  could  not 
have  been  gathered  from  any  save  one  who  had 
grown  up  with  John,  and  enjoyed,  always,  his 
absolute  confidence.  Much  that  I  have  been 
enabled  accurately  to  set  forth  in  this  volume 
about  McCormack — and  which  he,  himself,  never 
would  have  hinted  at — was  thus  made  possible. 

412 


REFLECTIONS 

With  Bishop  Cur  ley  it  was  a  labor  of  love ;  for 
to  him  John  McCormack  is  the  sun  in  the  sky. 

The  service  of  the  voice.  That  phrase,  more 
fittingly  than  any  other  I  know,  opened  the  gates 
of  my  understanding.  It  clarified  one's  mental 
search  for  the  element,  or  elements,  which  have 
lifted  McCormack  above  others  who  have  also 
had  voice  and  the  gift  of  song.  For  to  him  there 
was  given  all  things  necessary  to  make  him  what 
Bishop  Curley,  in  his  gently  suggestive  way, 
meant  me  to  grasp  that  he  is — the  prophet  of 
song. 

Out  of  his  knowledge  gained  in  his  college 
days ;  of  his  studies,  among  the  many  he  mastered, 
of  Irish  literature;  and  of  the  folk-songs  of  his 
native  land,  too,  John  brought  an  abundance  of 
the  mind  to  each  interpretation  and  joined  it  with 
that  of  the  heart.  Neither,  without  the  other, 
could  have  served;  and  to  these  two  the  adding 
of  the  McCormack  voice  made  a  trinity. 

All  of  this  Bishop  Curley  made  plain  to  me. 
I  comprehended,  then,  why  the  people  (and  the 
musicians,  also)  receive  a  McCormack  message, 
why  he  interprets  the  poet,  no  less  than  the  com- 
poser; and  what  it  is  that  stirs  the  pulses  when 
he  sings.  The  service  of  the  voice — in  speech 

413 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

and  song — is  the  thing  John  McCormack  has 
been  given  to  do. 

Having  grasped  these  matters  it  did  not  sur- 
prise me,  when  one  who  had  been  in  that  gath- 
ering on  the  lawn  of  George  Washington's  home, 
at  Mount  Vernon,  Fourth  of  July,  1918,  told  me 
of  the  effect  John  had  made  upon  them  when 
he  sang  "The  Star-Spangled  Banner."  I  was 
able,  thus,  to  gather  the  full  of  McCormack's 
simple  statement  when  I  asked  him  what  Presi- 
dent Wilson  had  said  to  him,  after  he  finished. 

"I  stood  very  near  to  the  President,"  said  the 
tenor,  "while  I  sang.  Never  did  patriotism  surge 
within  me  as  on  that  day.  One  felt  the  dignity, 
the  majesty,  of  the  occasion.  And  the  Presi- 
dent's speech  left  my  soul  fired.  I  saw  noth- 
ing, heard  nothing,  felt  nothing  but  the  grandeur 
of  what  the  poem  meant.  My  eyes  were  closed 
all  the  while  I  sang. 

"There  was  a  brief  silence  at  the  end.  Then 
President  Wilson  stepped  a  few  paces  to  where 
I  stood,  and  took  my  hand  and  pressed  it — 
fervently,  it  seemed  to  me.  'I  never  heard  "The 
Star-Spangled  Banner"  sung,  Mr.  McCormack, 
as  you  just  sang  it!  And  I  thank  you  from  the 
bottom  of  my  heart.' ' 

414 


REFLECTIONS 

And  it  is  somewhat  odd,  in  view  of  what  Bishop 
Curley  told  me,  that  President  Wilson,  on  the 
way  down  the  Potomac,  aboard  the  Presidential 
yacht,  Mayflower,  should  have  discussed,  at 
length,  with  McCormack  the  subject  of  voice. 

I  should  have  liked  to  hear  more  extensively 
from  John  concerning  that  experience,  but  he 
hesitated  to  say  more  than  just  those  few  words. 
To  him,  no  doubt,  it  appeared  something  to  feel 
rather  than  to  discuss. 

We  were  approaching  the  last  stages  in  the 
preparation  of  this  volume  when  McCormack 
touched  upon  that  Independence  Day  Mt.  Vernon 
experience  of  his.  Mrs.  McCormack,  Miss 
Foley,  Cyril  and  Gwen  and  Edwin  Schneider  had 
gone  to  the  tennis  court,  and  the  tenor  let  his 
thoughts  drift  to  matters  he  had  not  already 
spoken  about. 

Never  having  been  in  his  New  York  City  home, 
in  Fifty-seventh  Street  (near  Central  Park),  I 
had  not  seen  some  of  the  art  treasures  he  has 
there. 

"I  had  always  wanted  to  have  about  me  some 
really  fine  canvases,"  he  said.  "My  natural  love 
for  the  beautiful  had  been  cultivated  during  my 
studies  in  Milan;  you  will  recall  I  spent  much 

415 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

of  my  time  in  the  ^Galleria.  The  influence  of 
everything  in  painting,  sculpture  and  architec- 
ture that  is  beautiful  benefits  the  singer,  just  as 
the  best  in  literature  does. 

"To  one  who  is  as  sensitive  to  environment 
as  I,  it  is  helpful  to  have  about  as  much  repre- 
sentative of  the  arts  as  one  consistently  can.  I 
have  a  fondness  for  rare  violins,  too.  But  some 
of  my  paintings  give  me  the  deepest  pleasure. 
One  room,  alone,  is  given  over  to  Rembrandt  and 
other  masterpieces.  There  hangs  the  portrait  of 
'Rembrandt's  Sister.'  Rembrandt  did  it  in  Six- 
teen Forty-two.  There  is  much  history  sur- 
rounding it — Gwen  and  Cyril  can  tell  you  all 
the  details. 

"My  'Nymphs  Bathing'  is  one  of  the  best  speci- 
mens of  Corot  I  have  seen.  I  always  admired 
Blakelock,  too,  and  when  I  found  an  opportunity 
to  pick  up  a  representative  canvas  I  didn't  hesi- 
tate long.  There's  a  nice  landscape  by  J.  Francis 
Murphy,  and  a  quaint  painting,  of  two  peasants, 
by  David  Teniers.  I  have  other  canvases,  not 
so  fine  as  some  of  the  rest,  but  containing  for 
me  a  wealth  of  sentiment ;  they  are  by  Mary  Car- 
lisle— scenes  of  Ireland,  with  the  flowers  of  Ire- 

416 


REFLECTIONS 

land  almost  with  the  radiance  of  their  natural 
colors. 

"They  are  all  friends,  now;  sometimes  they 
seem  fairly  to  talk  to  me.  Then  there  is  the 
portrait  Walter  Dean  Grosbeck  did  of  Mrs.  Mc- 
Cormack;  the  'Romeo  and  Juliet'  statue  which 
Rodin  made,  and  one  in  which  his  genius  shows 
in  each  detail.  Two  marble  busts,  as  well,  of 
Cyril  and  Gwen,  which  Mario  Korbel  did  two 
years  ago." 

"A  pretentious  start,"  I  ventured. 

"Interesting,"  agreed  McCormack,  "and  giv- 
ing one  a  pleasure  in  the  ownership  which,  some- 
how, doesn't  come  when  you  see  works  in  a  gal- 
lery which  are  just  as  fine.  For  the  beauties 
in  a  picture,  or  any  other  masterpiece  of  an  art, 
arise  through  understanding.  At  first  you  form 
its  acquaintance,  then  you  become  a  'friend.' 

"Take  the  original  manuscript  of  Eugene 
Field's  'Little  Boy  Blue,'  which  I  bought  for  my 
kiddies:  a  glow  comes  over  me  when  I  take  it 
in  my  hands,  to  read.  And  both  Cyril  and  Gwen 
learned  the  words  from  those  very  words  which 
Field  penned  with  his  own  hand. 

"A  genuine  pleasure  comes  to  me,"  said  Me- 
417 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

Cormack,  "through  the  letters  I  get  from  mem- 
bers of  what  I  might  call  my  'invisible  audience' ; 
those  who  hear  me  oftenest  through  the  phono- 
graph." 

One  can  understand  the  tenor's  feeling,  in  this 
respect.  Of  all  singers,  his  "invisible  audience" 
is  largest;  probably  the  most  loyal.  The  total 
of  McCormack  records  sold  each  year  by  the  Vic- 
tor company  is  astonishing;  some  idea  of  their 
quantity  may  be  gathered  from  the  fact  that 
John's  last  year's  royalties  from  this  source  is 
considerable — the  tenor  preferred  not  to  state 
the  sum. 

In  every  land  one  may  find  McCormack  "fans" 
— which  is  a  proper  word  to  apply  to  those  who 
go  regularly,  each  month,  to  purchase  the  new- 
est McCormack  record.  The  tenor's  contract 
stipulates  that  he  shall  make  five  records  of  new 
songs  every  year,  but  he  always  exceeds  that  num- 
ber. 

C.  G.  Child,  in  charge  of  the  department  which 
has  to  do  with  the  artists  singing  for  the  Victor 
Talking  Machine  Company,  might  explain  why 
he  wants  more,  and  yet  more,  McCormack 
"master-records" — from  which  those  sold  to  the 
public  are  made. 

418 


REFLECTIONS 

"I  always  enjoy  my  trips  to  Camden,  (New 
Jersey) ,  for  Child  is  a  staunch  friend  and  sympa- 
thetic. Making  a  record  is  no  easy  accomplish- 
ment. Infinite  patience  is  required  to  secure  a 
'master-record'  which  has  no  flaw.  On  occasions 
I  re-make  a  record  several  times  before  Child  and 
I  are  satisfied;  and  during  these  difficult  mo- 
ments he  is  always  by  my  side,  encouraging  and 
helping  as  he  so  well  can. 

"The  'Jocelyn'  lullaby,  of  all  the  records  I 
have  made  (I  believe  they  number  one  hundred 
and  twenty) ,  is  my  favorite.  Somehow  it  seems 
to  lend  itself  completely  to  phonographic  repro- 
duction, and  the  obligato,  by  Kreisler,  discloses 
that  artist  at  his  best.  Then  there  is  The  Trum- 
peter.' 'Mother  Machree,'  'Mavis'  and  'I  Hear 
You  Calling  Me'  are  all  popular  with  the  public ; 
so  is  'Ah!  Moon  of  My  Delight.' 

"Every  little  while,"  said  the  tenor,  "some  ex- 
perience I  have  with  one  of  my  'invisible  audi- 
ence' makes  my  heart  beat  faster.  Three  years 
ago,  in  Hartford,  a  gentleman  was  brought  to 
my  dressing-room,  after  the  concert.  He  was  one 
of  Connecticut's  representative  business  men. 
He  had,  he  said,  a  message  to  deliver  personally 
to  me  from  his  mother,  who  was  an  invalid  and 

419 


REFLECTIONS 

unable  to  attend  my  concert.  Having  obtained 
a  programme,  in  advance,  of  what  I  was  an- 
nounced to  sing,  she  arranged  one  of  her  own 
(to  be  performed  through  the  medium  of  my 
phonograph  records),  had  printed  copies  made, 
issued  tickets  of  admission  to  her  home  to  her 
friends,  and  began  the  'invisible  audience'  con- 
cert at  the  precise  minute  my  own,  in  Hartford, 
was  scheduled  to  commence.  My  caller  had  a 
request  to  make  of  me :  he  wanted  an  autographed 
photograph,  for  his  mother." 

The  tenor  seemed  a  trifle  sad  this  day.  When 
he  talked  about  some  few,  who  are  dead,  he  so- 
bered, but  he  would  brighten,  in  recalling  to  his 
mind  his  experiences  with  certain  living  person- 
ages. 

"I  am  a  devoted  admirer  of  Theodore  Roose- 
velt," said  John,  "and  his  autographed  picture 
which  hangs  in  the  hall  is  a  gift  I  prize.  He  is 
a  tremendous  force,  and  I  think  he  more  faith- 
fully typifies  America  than  any  man  I  have  met. 
One  of  the  most  difficult  tasks  I  ever  undertook 
was  writing  my  letter  of  condolence  in  his  loss  of 
his  brave  son,  Lieutenant  Quentin  Roosevelt. 
Yet  the  reply  he  sent  me  was  characteristic  of 
his  capacity  to  accept  with  the  fortitude  of  a  great 

420 


REFLECTIONS 

nature  what  must  have  been  one  of  his  severest 
blows. 

"Another  great  man  for  whom  my  admiration 
is  unbounded  is  His  Eminence,  Cardinal  Gib- 
bons. And  an  incident  at  one  of  my  concerts 
which  he  attended  will  always  make  me  feel  closer 
to  him  than  had  it  not  occurred.  He  makes  it 
an  invariable  rule  never  to  remain  at  a  function 
or  entertainment  later  than  nine  o'clock  in  the 
evening.  On  this  occasion,  when  he  prepared 
to  leave  the  auditorium,  he  discovered  the  time 
to  be  twenty  minutes  of  ten;  and  I  am  told  that 
he  remarked  that  he  had  forgotten,  in  listening 
to  my  singing,  all  about  the  hour."  The  same 
thing  happened  at  Ocean  Grove  August  17, 
1918,  when  Cardinal  Gibbons  attended  a  McCor- 
mack  concert. 

"I  lost  a  friend,"  said  John  with  a  trace  of 
longing  in  his  voice,  "in  the  death  of  Archbishop 
Ryan.  I  lunched  with  him  only  a  short  time  be- 
fore he  died,  and  I  remember  clearly  the  brilli- 
ance of  his  mind,  which  fascinated  me  as  I  sat 
there,  and  his  gift  of  repartee.  Few  others  pos- 
sessed it  in  the  degree  he  did." 

Later,  with  the  inclination  to  talk  returned, 
McCormack  perceptibly  brightened. 

421 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

"Former  President  Taft  is  a  man  I  deem  it  an 
honor  to  know.  His  friendship  means  some- 
thing, to  me  particularly  because  of  the  way  we 
met.  It  was  during  my  first  appearance  with 
the  Manhattan  Opera  Company  in  Washington, 
on  which  occasion  we  played  for  a  week  to  the 
varied  and  brilliant  audiences  always  character- 
istic of  the  national  capital,  that  I  received  in  my 
dressing-room  a  visit  from  Mr.  Taft's  then  mili- 
tary aide,  Captain  Archie  Butt.  Butt  and  I 
afterwards  became  intimate  friends,  and  his 
death  was  a  shock  from  which  I  did  not  easily 
recover. 

"I  remember,  as  though  it  were  yesterday,  what 
Archie  said  as  he  stood  and  delivered  President 
Taft's  message.  'The  President  would  like  you 
to  lunch  with  him  to-morrow  at  the  White  House.' 

"At  first  I  could  not  believe  that  I  had  under- 
stood correctly,  and  informed  my  visitor  that 
there  must  be  some  mistake.  I  can  see  him  now, 
standing  before  me  with  a  smile,  and  replying: 
'No,  there  is  no  mistake.  The  President  would 
be  pleased  to  have  John  McCormack  take  lunch 
with  him  to-morrow.' 

"It  is  not  exaggeration  when  I  say  that  I  was 
422 


REFLECTIONS 

dubious  even  as  I  made  my  way  through  the  presi- 
dential grounds  to  the  White  House  itself. 

"During  the  years  that  I  knew  Archie  we 
lunched  together,  often,  when  he  came  over  to 
New  York.  It  was  usually  in  the  Waldorf-As- 
toria grill.  The  last  time  we  met  in  this  way  he 
said  to  me:  'It's  peculiar,  John,  how  friend- 
ships grow  out  of  chance  meetings ;  I  believe  we 
shall  be  friends  all  our  lives.'  And  shortly  after, 
when  I  endeavored  to  reach  him  by  'phone  during 
a  brief  stay  in  Washington,  I  was  told  that  he 
had  just  left  for  Rome.  Not  long  after,  as  we 
know,  he  was  among  those  who  lost  their  lives 
in  the  sinking  of  the  Titanic.  But  there  is  a 
great  consolation  in  the  thought  that  he  died  as 
he  lived — a  true  American  gentleman. 

"Among  the  men  who  are  doing  things  to- 
day, and  have  done  them  in  the  past,  Melville 
Stone,  general  manager  of  The  Associated  Press, 
is  prominent.  His  mind  is  tremendous,  his 
judgment  and  discretion  such  that  the  foremost 
in  administering  the  affairs  of  many  nations  give 
him  their  confidence  and  hold  his  opinions  in 
profound  respect.  I  am  proud  to  have  Mr.  Stone 
as  friend,  and  of  the  honors  tendered  me  I  count 

423 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

the  dinner  he  gave  me  at  the  Lotus  Club,  in  New 
York,  as  one  of  the  highest." 

John  spoke  feelingly  of  many  people  that  aft- 
ernoon. For  nearly  all  he  held  kindly  thoughts, 
and  for  some  affection.  A  few  he  mentioned 
in  a  regretful  way,  though  without  censure.  I 
sensed  that  the  tenor  would  rather  have  had  them 
persons  of  a  different  sort;  and  I  think  he  was 
sorry  for  them.  He  showed,  during  my  many 
talks  with  him,  a  commendable  attitude  of  toler- 
ance toward  those  he  might  have  felt  tempted 
to  criticize.  There  were  few  instances  wherein 
he  disclosed  in  speech  displeasure  with  another's 
actions,  and  at  those  times  he  would  conclude 
with  some  such  expression  as,  "But  that  is  his 
misfortune;  I  suppose  one  should  make  allow- 


ances." 


I  left  him,  when  I  started  for  New  York,  seated 
alone  on  the  veranda.  He  didn't  rise.  His  gaze 
was  directed  towards  the  beach  where  the  swim- 
mers were.  I  called  a  "So-long,  John!"  as  I 
reached  the  screen  door,  which  caused  him  to  look 
over  at  me  and  smile.  "So-long,"  he  replied, 
"see  you  Thursday." 


424 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

CONCLUSION 

It  was  morning,  on  the  twelfth  day  of  August, 
Nineteen  Hundred  Eighteen.  The  prostrating 
heat  of  the  week  previous  had  broken,  leaving 
those  of  us  in  and  about  New  York  somewhat 
limp  and  with  an  eye  to  approaching  September 
and  a  hope  that  it  would  bring  permanent  cool- 
ness. I  had  taken  an  early  train  leaving  the 
Grand  Central  Station  for  Stamford.  At  ten 
o'clock  I  had  finished  my  shaky  ride,  in  a  small 
car  of  a  famous  make,  from  the  Stamford  station 
to  Rocklea.  I  stepped  out  upon  the  ground  and 
across  under  the  shallow  portico  which  shelters 
the  McCormack  doorway. 

Gwenny  caught  sight  of  me,  from  the  living- 
room,  and  saved  my  touching  the  bell.  She 
came  and  opened  the  door,  her  face  aglow  and 
her  eyes  snapping  in  the  vigor  of  perfect  health 
of  a  ten-year-old  miss. 

"Papa's  waiting,"  she  announced,  "and  an 
425 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

oyster  barge's  burning  over  at  the  island  across 
the  Sound  and  we're  going  over  and  you'll  have 
to  come  along  and — " 

She  declaimed  it  all  in  a  breath,  her  features 
rosy  from  much  and  sudden  physical  effort  which 
had  sent  her  into  a  costume  appropriate  for  the 
anticipated  adventure.  But  time,  evidently,  was 
an  essential ;  for  she  bolted  with  her  sentence  un- 
finished and  leaped  from  the  veranda  and  ran 
across  the  lawn.  I  had  followed  less  impulsively 
and  had  half  crossed  the  living-room  when  Cyril 
burst  upon  the  scene,  duplicating  the  excitement 
of  his  sister. 

"She's  burning!"  he  cried,  "and  the  men 
jumped  overboard.  Come  on!" 

I  counseled  a  curbing  of  his  impetuous  spirit 
to  which  he  flung,  over  his  shoulder,  a  reply  I  did 
not  get.  But  I  paused,  at  the  doorway  leading 
to  the  veranda,  and  watched.  Hard  after  the 
children  ran  the  two  smallest  dogs,  Towser,  the 
woolly  dog,  and  Go-Go,  the  Peke.  Then,  from 
around  a  corner  of  the  house,  shot  a  streak.  It 
was  Nellie,  the  Belgian  police-dog.  Evidently 
the  chase,  in  its  entirety,  was  on.  But,  it  ap- 
peared, my  reasoning  was  premature,  for  a  voice 
greeted  me  from  behind  and  I  turned  to  see  Mrs. 

426 


CONCLUSION 

McCormack  and  Miss  Foley  making  hurriedly  for 
the  veranda  exit. 

With  less  visible  excitement  the  ladies  ap- 
prised me  of  the  news  and  followed  it  with  the 
information  that  they,  also,  were  about  to  em- 
bark upon  the  expedition,  in  John's  small  boat 
which  had  a  "kicker." 

"What!"  I  exclaimed.     "You,  too?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Mrs.  McCormack,  "we  two! 
Will  you  make  it  three?" 

"I'm  a  hard-working  man,"  I  objected. 

"That  old  book,  I  suppose.  But  come  along, 
anyway.  John  will  wait." 

I  remembered  the  carrying  capacity  of  the 
boat,  and  reminded  Mrs.  McCormack.  I  would 
be  excess  baggage,  I  opined,  endangering  the 
sea-worthiness  of  the  craft.  McCormack,  hear- 
ing our  voices  and  coming  to  investigate,  ap- 
peared now  before  us. 

Mrs.  McCormack,  Miss  Foley  and  I  stole 
glances  at  one  another  and  they  waved  their  hands 
and  departed,  leaving  John  and  me  standing 
there.  He  watched  them  hurrying  after  the  ad- 
vance guard  and  laughed.  "Regular  children," 
he  murmured,  "like  the  others." 

We  went  outside,  where  Schneider  sat  with 
427 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

his  legs  looped  upon  one  arm  of  a  wicker-chair, 
lolling  over  the  morning  paper.  "Drop  it," 
commanded  John,  "and  get  to  work" — meaning 
to  join  us  in  the  concluding  efforts  of  "copy"  re- 
vision and  the  providing  of  the  final  material  for 
John's  book.  Ted  wriggled  into  a  semblance  of 
physical  normality,  wished  me  "howdy!"  and 
obediently  prepared  to  give  himself  to  the  task. 

For  two  hours  we  battled :  John  and  Schneider 
and  I  alternately  agreeing  and  disagreeing.  It 
was  over  at  last,  and  I  put  into  my  portfolio  sun- 
dry sheets  of  paper  and  a  sheaf  of  publisher's 
proofs. 

After  luncheon,  during  which  the  sea-faring 
members  of  the  McCormack  family  hurled  at  us 
details  of  their  investigation  of  the  still  burning 
oyster-boat  and  the  escape  of  its  crew,  John  and 
I  fared  forth  for  a  jaunt.  His  Ocean  Grove  (New 
Jersey)  annual  concert  was  five  days  off,  the  pe- 
riod of  serious  preparation  with  Schneider  for  his 
approaching  season  near  at  hand,  and  the  tenor 
was  in  a  serious  mood. 

"It  flies,"  he  said  soberly,  meaning  time.  "It 
seems  but  yesterday  that  I  finished  last  year's 
work;  and  an  hour  ago  that  I  sang  'The  Star- 
Spangled  Banner'  before  President  Wilson  and 

428 


CONCLUSION 

his  distinguished  guests  at  Mount  Vernon,  on 
July  Fourth." 

"Are  you  sorry?" 

"No.  I  wouldn't  say  that.  I  love  my  work; 
I'd  be  miserable  without  it.  And  my  people — 
they're  mine,  you  know  ...  in  a  way,  just  as 
I  am  theirs.  But  each  autumn  it  is  harder  to 
leave  my  family.  I've  never  outgrown  home- 
sickness, and  never  shall.  It  grips  me  as  firmly, 
in  another  way,  as  in  those  college  days  at  Sum- 
merhill." 

We  trudged  along  the  smoothly  paved  road,  in 
silence,  for  a  considerable  stretch. 

"Bishop  Curley  sent  back  his  last  batch  of 
proofs.  He  made  a  few  changes,  but  he  approves 
what  we've  done.  I'm  glad  of  that." 

I  was  glad,  too.  We  have  been  fortunate, 
John  and  I,  in  having  the  scholarly  and  sympa- 
thetic guidance  of  His  Lordship,  as  editor. 

"You're  relieved,  I  suppose,  that  it's  over.  A 
lot  of  bother  with  the  work;  and  not  so  easy, 
either." 

I  wasn't  relieved,  in  the  least.  Truthfully 
speaking,  I  felt  a  bit  blue.  The  many  hours  we 
had  spent  together  had  been  happy  hours,  and 
fruitful  ones.  And  I  had  come  to  know  the  real 

429 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

John  McCormack.  The  sky  was  a  turquoise 
blue,  with  only  a  few  flecks  of  fleecy  clouds,  and  I 
raised  my  eyes  as  if  to  glimpse  nature's  canopy — 
though  really,  covertly,  to  steal  a  glance  at  the 
big  Irish-American  at  my  side.  He  strode  on, 
with  head  thrown  back;  I  could  fancy  him  almost 
ready  to  sing. 

"I  shall  .  .  .  miss  you,  John." 

He  swung  a  trifle  out  of  his  course,  and  I  caught 
his  gaze  squarely. 

"Will  you?"  he  said,  with  a  rising  inflection. 

"I've  been  a  nuisance,  more  or  less.  Popping 
in  at  odd  times,  and  fussing  things  about — dur- 
ing your  vacation." 

His  tone  held  a  gruffly  suspicious  edge  when 
he  replied.  "Well,  what's  a  nuisance,  more  or 
less?  It's  all  in  a  lifetime."  I  smiled  inwardly 
at  this,  holding  my  tongue.  "And  the  book  had 
to  be  written  .  .  .  some  day." 

There  arose,  then,  before  my  mind's  eye  the 
swarm  of  letters  I  had  read;  those  communica- 
tions which  he  treasures  far  more  than  he  is  will- 
ing to  admit.  I  shouldn't  have  censured  him  had 
he  felt  a  conceit.  For  they  might  easily  have 
spoiled  him,  together  with  the  recognition  his 
audiences  have  accorded  him  in  the  flesh. 

430 


CONCLUSION 

Not  that  he  is  without  his  weaknesses,  for  he 
has  them.  But  at  heart  he  is  still  the  unassum- 
ing boy  he  was  before  Distinction  tapped  him 
positively  on  the  shoulder.  And  I  remembered, 
at  that  point  in  our  walk,  what  he  had  told  me 
about  his  planned  retirement;  at  forty-five,  he 
had  said.  "Eleven  years  more,"  I  mused;  "four 
more  than  the  small  number  which  he  only  has 
needed  to  make  a  career  already  incomparable." 

Big  though  his  accomplishments  have  been 
they  will  be  bigger.  Those  of  us  who  have 
watched  McCormack  grow  know  this.  It  needs 
no  more  than  steadiness  of  head  and  purpose,  and 
these  he  seemingly  has.  His  voice  is  not  yet 
at  its  best,  strange  though  this  may  appear.  A 
richer  quality  will  come,  as  John's  experience 
ripens;  and  its  use  will  develop  its  resource,  its 
responsiveness  to  the  singer's  commands. 

Nor  is  McCormack's  art  at  its  zenith.  Wait 
and  see,  if  you,  who  read,  doubt.  Hear  him 
now — admitted  master  though  he  be — and  hear 
him  six  years  hence,  at  forty.  Recall  his  ad- 
vancement over  the  last  six  years,  then  visualize 
what  it  is  likely  to  be  when  he  touches  the  mile- 
stone that  makes  broader  men  of  all  who  are 
men. 

431 


JOHN  McCORMACK 

Caruso  will  be  fifty-one  then;  John  McCor- 
mack  forty — forty,  with  the  richest  period  of  his 
singing  career  unfolding  in  that  coming  half- 
decade,  and  hundreds  of  thousands  upon  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  people  hanging  upon  the 
tones  he  so  unstintingly  gives. 

I  hope  that  final  day  may  be  long  delayed — 
which  shall  mark  John  McCormack's  farewell. 
I  shall  not  want  to  be  there,  wherever  it  happens 
to  be.  For  I  doubt,  if  it  be  arranged  as  such,  that 
John  can  really  sing.  The  last  concert  will  have 
to  be  something  completed  and  done,  without 
John's  knowing  it  is  that.  Otherwise  he  will 
not  finish  what  he  begins.  It  isn't  in  him,  with 
his  nature,  to  go  through  with  an  ordeal  such  as 
that  would  be.  He'd  break  and  go  to  pieces, 
right  there  with  his  audience — which  would 
break  with  him,  too. 

But  if  he  were  voluntarily  to  cease  his  singing, 
now  (which  he  will  not  do) ,  he  would  still  leave 
behind  a  career  unapproached  by  any  singer  since 
Jenny  Lind.  I  doubt  if  even  that  illustrious 
songstress  has  done  as  much  to  make  people  love 
music  as  John  McCormack.  With  eleven  work- 
ing years  ahead,  McCormack  will  leave  a  name 
likely  to  be  untouched  by  any  other  who  has  gone 

432 


CONCLUSION 

before  and,  in  all  reasonable  likelihood,  almost 
unattainable  by  any  singer  who  may  come  after. 

It  was  some  time  later.  We  had  finished  tea, 
on  the  veranda,  and  I  had  shaken  hands  with 
everyone.  John  and  the  others  went  out  with 
me  to  the  car,  where  Wilkinson  sat  waiting.  "I 
won't  go  with  you  to  the  station,"  he  said.  "Any 
other  time,  but  ...  I  don't  like  farewells. 
Staying  here,  behind,  it  won't  seem  that." 

We  shot  off,  Wilkinson  at  the  wheel  of  McCor- 
mack's  Rolls-Royce,  down  the  driveway.  I 
turned  as  we  reached  the  gate,  just  before  we 
would  roll  out,  and  from  view.  John  took  a  step 
or  two  in  my  direction.  He  waved  a  hand  as  I 
caught  sight  of  him — and  I  waved  in  reply. 

I  thought  then,  of  that  bit  of  verse  Bishop 
Curley  had  discovered,  somewhere  up  in  Massa- 
chusetts, last  June.  He  thought  it  fitted  Mc- 
Cormack  so  perfectly.  It  ran: 

"Something  more  than  the  lilt  of  the  strain, 
Something  more  than  the  touch  of  the  lute, 
For  the  voice  of  the  minstrel  is  vain 
If  the  heart  of  the  minstrel  is  mute." 

THE   END 
433 


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